Accompaniment
by Quiet2885
Summary: Supernatural. Modern. It's been with him since birth. Always slithering in his veins and mind…in every horrific decision he's made and every action he's taken. Yet just as he's determined to be free of it, she comes along. And perhaps then there was no saving either of them. Because what chance did a fragile girl and an unhinged deformed man have against pure evil?
1. Chapter 1

Welcome to my little supernatural story! But don't let that genre scare you away. There are no vampires, werewolves, or extreme magic. My main source of inspiration besides POTO was _Paranormal Activity_, mainly the third one (I've only seen the first 3), and so it's a much more subtle supernatural.

This is a darker story, but I don't think this will be my darkest Erik. I hope that it has a kind of darkly sweet feel to it—Leroux-y sweet, I guess. So there's murder and morbidity but an underlying gentleness as well. Happy Valentine's Day? Lol.

Disclaimer: I sadly do not own the characters of _The Phantom of the Opera_. Everything belongs to Gaston Leroux. _Phantom_ is owned by Susan Kay.

**Enjoy!**

_1960_

The air smelled of late spring and rain. And something else that Irene couldn't quite identify.

Almost of death. But not the stench of decay or rot like when a squirrel became trapped in the walls of her rickety 1920's home. This odor was musty and damp, and she wrinkled her nose and momentarily wondered if there was some type of sewage problem in the nearest town.

A warm wind gusted over the green grass in front, blowing several strands of long blonde hair from Irene's bun and into her perspiring face as she hung sheets to dry. Sputtering dust and dirt from her mouth, she checked the greying sky. Storms were likely but probably nothing that would take the house down, no twisters. One hand absentmindedly fell to the lower half of her cotton housedress to keep it from blowing up in the wind. A year ago, a man in a red Chevy had driven by and whistled at her. "How I do love the view out here in Nebraska!" he'd called. "Yes, Siree!"

Little events like that made her appreciate that she currently had no men in her life and also regret it. A hopeless spinster, one great aunt had called her. Especially after her parents had passed on, the world seemed a little more isolating. They had left her their savings and the family home, and Irene had made the rest of her way occasionally teaching and doing tailoring work for nearby families. Young women often brought her their wedding dresses for special alterations, and she was reminded of her unmarried status. Then again, Irene wasn't so lonely now-

"Mommy!"

She turned and smiled as the five-year-old child skipped down the concrete steps, a black-haired doll dangling upside down in her arms. "What is it, sweetheart?"

"It's hot! Um, can I play under the tree?"

Irene knew she was referring to the blossoming catalpa tree in the front; they'd had many picnics and tea parties beneath it. "Yes. Give me a couple of minutes. And then I'll bring my book and join you. Okay?" The tree was near the road, and Irene didn't want her playing there by herself for very long. You saw things in the papers, child abductions and that kind of awfulness.

"Okay, Mommy! I'm going to get Julie, too!" Madeleine scampered back inside the white house to find her other doll. She tripped once on the last step but quickly dusted herself off and ran inside. Technically, Madeleine was her niece, but Irene had raised the child since birth. Maddy had added a touch of light to her life that she hadn't known was missing.

Once she was finished hanging bed sheets, Irene turned and watched as Maddy carried her two dolls outside and patiently waited by the steps. As Irene approached the house to grab her novel, she heard the little girl speaking to them.

"Um, yes. Yes, that's very nice. No. I don't want to. I don't want to do that. But we could eat." She glanced up. "Can we have cookies?"

"I think that can be arranged," said Irene. "I'll bring the shortbread ones, okay?"

"Okay!"

Irene brought out the box of pinwheel-shaped shortbread cookies and watched as Maddy settled her two dolls out around the red and blue striped blanket. The white blossoms rustled overhead in the breeze, and their sweet scent muffled the earlier stench in the air. Maddy was adorable in her sleeveless yellow sundress with purple flowers embroidered on the collar.

She'd make a lovely mother someday, Irene thought as she watched the five-year-old painstakingly care for her dolls. The stray thought placed a nervous sensation in the pit of her stomach as a conversation from five years ago returned to her. And as hard as she tried to push the affair way, it had stayed with Irene, hovering at the brink of her subconscious.

Then again, how could anyone forget a thing like that?

To this day, she did not know all the details. Angela had been far too private and isolated; the two sisters hadn't spoken in years. According to one source, Angela hadn't realized she was with child until the eighth month. And then she had gone completely mad and tried to end her pregnancy through very dangerous means. Her husband, Jeffrey, had apparently stopped her before she'd plunged a knife into her womb, and she'd been physically restrained and sedated at the nearest hospital. Irene had been summoned directly after the birth; her younger sister, her only sibling, was not going to survive. The doctors said something had ruptured internally, but Irene still believed that her sister had simply lost the will to live. The child, however, would be fine.

Five years ago, Irene had arrived at her sister's deathbed and Maddy's birth bed, watching as the life drained from Angela's grey-green eyes as the baby wailed nearby. Angela's husband wasn't present.

They would learn hours later that Jeffrey was hanging from a wooden rafter in their house, a three-legged stool kicked out from beneath his bare feet. Neighbors had heard the Labrador growling and forced their way inside; the dog had been frantically barking at the swaying corpse. Irene hadn't known the man well, but he'd seemed generally pleasant and soft spoken from their brief encounters. There were those who claimed that Angela had driven him mad.

Her sister's breath had been raspy and her skin had been ice cold as she clutched Irene's hand in those last awful moments. She attempted to speak, but her words came out in a sputtering, bloody cough.

"What's wrong?" Irene had desperately asked. "Calm down, Angela. What are you trying to say?"

"What is it?" Angela finally managed to rasp. "Renie, what is it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Boy or girl?"

"It's a baby girl," Irene had replied with tears streaming down her cheeks. "A beautiful baby girl! She has black curls just like you. And beautiful dark eyes. She's lovely, Angela."

"Thank the Lord. Lucky," Angela had whispered, collapsing back onto the pillow. She stared at the ceiling and smiled with only one lip curved upward. "I was lucky. So lucky. Thank you, Jesus. Oh, forgive me, Jesus."

"Lucky for what?" Angela's cold hand had suddenly wrapped around her wrist. "Ow. You're hurting me!"

Angela's smile faded, and she gaped upwards with nearly wild eyes. Her bluish lips trembled. She coughed twice, and a bead of saliva remained at the corner of her mouth. "Tell my daughter…you must tell her she must not-"

"Tell her what?" Irene had desperately asked.

"She cannot have a child. She must not _ever._ _Never. _ Tell her she can't. Because I was lucky."

"What?_ Why?"_

"_Tell her that! _Because it-it might be a boy, Renie. It might be a b-boy."

"So what if it's a boy? What does that matter?"

Angela shook her head back and forth, her limp curls trembling. "C-can't….She can't…."

"But it doesn't make any sense, Angela!"

With her last bit of life, Angela had practically screeched, "Tell her she can't! Promise me you won't ever let her have children!"

"I p-promise," Irene had whispered if only to lessen the throbbing pain on her wrist. And to give her little sister a last moment of peace. "I'll tell her. I promise."

"Thank you, Renie. I'm-I'm so, so s-sorry." Irene's wrist was released, but the prickly cold had remained on her flesh. Angela's eyes rolled back into her skull, and her head hit the pillow with a morbid thud. All color drained from her face, leaving her as white as the pillow. Of course, Irene had immediately agreed to take in poor Madeleine.

The memory of that night still gave Irene chills.

But now she had a thriving, bright-eyed child who held none of that horror. They were very happy together in the home out in the countryside. Irene would certainly miss her company when she began school next year, but it would be wonderful for Maddy to have more children to play with. Birthday parties and slumber parties and all that sort of fun. There was only joy now.

Irene had never passed along Angela's message. Frankly, she never planned to do so. Because it didn't make any sense. It was madness! Telling her sweet little niece that she couldn't have children because her insane mother had ordered it on her deathbed? Angela had always been odd. She was involved with things that had caused her neighbors to whisper.

Lunacy. Utter ridiculousness. Irene had a firm belief in God, but she didn't believe in _that _sort of thing. Still, Angela was obviously not right of mind.

Maddy was softly speaking again. "No. I said we shouldn't. Please go away now."

"Are you talking to your dolls?" Irene asked as she settled on the blanket with her book and smoothed her housedress over her tanned legs.

Maddy looked up and smiled shyly. "No. My friend."

Irene smiled back. She'd had imaginary friends at that age, she supposed. Well, an imaginary dog that she'd pretended to walk on a piece of red yarn. Lulu, she'd named it. "What's your friend's name?"

"It doesn't have one."

"It? Is it a boy or a girl?"

"Both. I don't know."

Irene chuckled at her little furrowed brow. She looked far too serious for a five-year-old. In fact, Maddy had seemed a little different since her fifth birthday, a bit more somber and quiet at times. Finally, Maddy turned back to her dolls, and the 'friend' seemed to be forgotten. They enjoyed the warm weather until the darker clouds finally rolled in and raindrops pounded their heads. Then, laughing, they ran back into the house together as thunder rumbled.

That evening, Irene put Maddy to bed early. While completing some mending for the nearby Johnsons, she listened to the news on the radio. Kennedy had won the California primary; she hoped he would win everything by November. The country needed a fresh young face. Russia was still angry about some type of military flight. If the two countries ever started throwing bombs at each other, she hoped central Nebraska would be the last place they'd hit. A typhoon in China. Irene finally nodded off over her needlework as the rain pattered on the roof and the sun set.

She was startled awake by a creak. Maddy was standing in the entryway of the living room, tear streaks on her scrunched up face. A teddy bear was clutched in her right arm.

"Sweetheart, what's wrong?" Irene carefully set her sewing to the side and held out her arms. Maddy ran forward and embraced her, curling up into a ball on her lap.

"I want it to go away now!" she said with a sob.

"What?"

"My friend."

"What? Maddy, your friend isn't real! Richard hasn't been scaring you with silly stories, has he?" The little boy was two years older than Maddy and lived down the road. He was polite around adults, but Irene knew he would often get into mischief when their backs were turned.

"No," Maddy whispered. "My friend just needs to go away now. Tell it, Auntie."

"Auntie?" Irene nervously swallowed. She hadn't planned on keeping it a secret forever-just until Maddy was old enough to understand concepts like death and childbirth. "How do you know that, sweetheart? How do you know I'm your—" Her voice tapered off. "Oh. Never mind."

Maddy fell asleep within minutes and was breathing quietly, her cheek pressed firmly against Irene's chest. Holding her little niece, Irene hummed the folksong that was her namesake. Her father had often liked to play it on his guitar, and Irene, Angela, and their mother would sing along. Back in the days when life seemed simpler. Irene came from a long line of relatives who had musical talent—piano, voice, fiddle.

Soon, she began to doze again, the rain on the roof its own sort of lullaby.

Hours later, Irene was briefly awoken by a strange, deep sigh in her left ear. It tickled her canal and caused a row of goose bumps to form along her arms. She opened her eyes and sat up straight, turning her head back and forth. The radio played a soft ballad. Maddy stirred in her arms. "Auntie," she murmured.

"Sh. Sleep, dear." Irene continued to gaze around the room. Nothing was out of the ordinary. Only the wind shook the house, causing it to groan every now and then. It must have been that.

And yet, after that day, Irene could never quite shake the feeling that they weren't alone.


	2. Chapter 2

I'm so happy that there's an interest in this type of story! I'm not going to say that this concept is entirely unique as far as modern cinema is concerned, but it also hasn't been explored in phan fiction very much. So once I had the POTO plot bunny, I finally couldn't resist carrying through with it. As far as length goes, I'm experimenting with shorter chapters in this story. It's a little easier on me editing-wise, and I think it fits the tone. So there could be a higher chapter count, but it won't be one of my longest stories. Thank you so much for all the support! **Enjoy!**

_2014_

"I just don't want him to think of me as the crazy girl."

"That's so silly! Of course he won't!"

"But he's this calm and normal person. I don't think he has any issues. He even puts the toilet seat down."

"That was a little too much information. But Christine. You're a normal person, too." Meg gave her a half-smile. "Just because you, you know, flipped out a tiny little bit when you were younger doesn't mean you're forever damaged. I used to eat chalk when I was four. Does that mean I'm permanently a chalk-eater?"

"You weren't checked into a psych ward because you ate chalk."

"I probably should have been. My mom has this picture of me. I'm wearing these ridiculous pigtails, and my mouth is covered in blue and pink."

They laughed together, and Christine's anxiety lessened somewhat. The growing noise was also drowning out some of her thoughts. It was the lunch hour, and campus was swarming with students that hot and sultry August. The lines would taper down when most of them figured out they couldn't afford to eat out every day unless their parents wanted to foot the bill. Christine probably shouldn't have been dining out either, but she wanted company that day. If she stayed alone with her worries for too long, she'd start making her problems seem bigger than they were. Meg tended to put things in perspective.

"Do you think he ever has to know?" Christine asked after a moment. Her tapered bangs fell into her eyes, and she brushed them away. She'd recently had her blonde hair cut directly beneath her chin, hoping the shorter style would be easier to manage, but that was proving untrue so far.

"Well, you've been dating for a year and half now. He has to know sometime, right?"

"Why? I have this vision in my head of me telling him and then he suddenly disappears in a cloud of dust."

"He's not a cartoon character. You know, it kind of makes you a more interesting person. No, don't give me that look. It does."

"I'd prefer to be less interesting," Christine replied, her gaze falling downward. "Or interesting in a good way. Like a child genius or a figure skater."

Meg ignored her last comment. "Raoul should know because it might accidentally come up someday. Someone might pull up your records when you're least expecting it. Or he might meet one of your family members, and they might tell him. Won't you feel better not hiding it? I've been in relationships with secrets, and it's never turned out well. Don't get me started on the dude who just got out of jail."

"I guess so."

"Besides, Christine. You're doing great, and that was ages ago."

Christine took a deep breath and slowly nodded her head. "You're right. I am better. A lot better. That happened when I was around fourteen. So what-almost nine years ago?"

"Exactly!" Meg grinned. "This isn't that big of deal." She glanced down at her silver smart phone. "Ooh. I've gotta run." She shook her head and began to gather everything together, almost knocking over her cup of soda in the process. Even frazzled, Megan was someone who managed to still look glamorous in a sweatshirt and leggings, her hair pulled into a tight black bun. "Grad school is going to be nuts."

"Good luck with everything. I'll talk to you later."

"Definitely. And it'll be fine. Just tell him. He's not going to care."

"Right."

Christine was grateful to have her best friend from high school back there. Meg had gotten an undergraduate degree at a smaller private college several states away, spent a year in New York unsuccessfully trying to 'make it big,' and was now looking to get her Master of Fine Arts in Dance. Christine had visited her once in New York City just for fun, and Meg had appeared gaunt and highly distressed.

"I knew it would be hard, just not this hard," Meg had admitted over severely overpriced coffee. Christine was out of money within days; she could only imagine how Meg had made it there as long as she did. "The competition is crazy; these girls have been dancing before they could walk, I think. My nerves are shot, I can barely eat, and then I have no energy. No wonder some of them take up smoking."

Several months later, Meg was back in their home state and heading down a more academic route. The color in her face was better, and she'd put on some needed weight. And, despite Meg's difficulties, she was still on a faster track to adulthood than Christine was.

Christine had met with an academic advisor yesterday, and it seemed she was still several semester's short of her bachelor's degree. That really wasn't a surprise as she'd taken two semesters off and changed her major three times. "Oh, don't worry about it," the man had said, grinning at her with a piece of spinach stuck to his top front tooth. His hair was tied back into a ponytail, and he was wearing a red Hawaiian shirt. "We get you wandering students all the time. You keep paying, you keep staying, right?"

That unprofessional comment reminded her that she needed to go to the financial aid office soon. Scholarships were getting harder and harder to come by these days, especially for 'wandering students.' Ignoring her loans didn't seem to make them go away.

The other day, Raoul had told her not to worry about all that. At first, she had thought he was being naïve to her circumstances. He had a trust fund, and his father owned a massive company that did something with mutual funds. He was already in the third semester of his MBA, more or less set for life. And so she'd angrily exclaimed, "Well, of course _you_ don't have to worry! A fifty thousand dollar education is a drop in the bucket for your family."

He'd turned a little red, cleared his throat, and said, "Well, I'm not saying it like that. I know it's expensive for you. I get that. I'm saying I'll help you out. We're together together, right?"

"Together together? Oh. Yeah, of course we are." Suddenly, she felt bad. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell. Just stressed."

An awkward moment had passed before he started talking about the acrobatics performance that he was going to take her to that weekend. But she understood that Raoul was telling her not to worry because he saw a long-term future for them. If they did get married, he'd pay her student debts off without question. She wasn't quite sure how to feel about that. Uncertain. Grateful. Guilty. Relieved. Loved.

And she was still worried that it might all fall apart after her upcoming admission. Meg was right; she was being silly about it. Time to calm down.

She had about thirty minutes before work, and Christine knew what she needed to do. Picking up her canvas backpack, she found a quiet study room in the student union building and closed the door. Taking a seat on a cushy purple armchair, she closed her eyes and inhaled the scents of polished wood and freshly-brewed coffee from the nearby cafe. She sat up straight. She breathed in deeply for ten seconds and then exhaled for ten seconds. Doing this exercise several times, she cleared her mind in the silence. Once she could only see white in her head, she thought of five positive things in her life.

_One. I have an awesome boyfriend, and we're doing well. Two. I have a great best friend, and she's back! Three. I have musical talent. Four. I…_It was getting a little harder. _Okay, four. I'm in good health—both physically and, more importantly, mentally. Five._ _Um…good grades last semester. I get good grades. _Good enough.

She knew all of it. Breathing techniques and cognitive exercises that focused on drowning out the negative. Meditation. Yoga for the mind. The doctors had given up and attributed her bizarre problem to stress in the end. And so she'd been taught to manage anxiety so that it never, ever happened again. And it hadn't. While Christine would occasionally become tense, she never felt like she was about to spiral downwards. There were the occasional, well—she referred to them as 'head tingles.' But that was far different than what had once occurred.

Feeling more relaxed, she left the room and headed for work, only a ten minute walk. She was a desk clerk at one of the university libraries. She'd first gotten a position through work study two years ago; she'd taken a meditation class under the woman who was now her main supervisor, and they'd become acquainted. Regina had enthusiastically told her to apply for the job because 'I can see how hard you try. And trying is what's so, so important.' And then she'd later been gracious enough to give Christine a part-time staff position with at least some health benefits.

Regina looked nearly giddy that afternoon. In a rather cynical world, she was one of the most optimistic people that Christine had ever met, always dressed in flowing long skirts and colorful scarves. Today, a string of lime green beads hung from her neck, and her greying hair was pulled back into a yellow headband that featured a bright fake sunflower on top. "Oh, Christine!" she exclaimed in her singsong voice. "When you have a break today, go take a look at the rare book collection. We acquired some really unique items with that grant. I know how you like the older things."

"But I can't touch them, right?" asked Christine with a laugh.

"Well, not unless you put on some gloves. And they're not even in English. But still—it's so exciting, isn't it?" She clasped her wrinkled ringed fingers together. "I just love all the old stuff, too. None of this digital nonsense. How can anyone even compare one of those silly e-readers to a good old-fashioned-" She was distracted by two boys skateboarding into the entryway, probably just using the library as a shortcut to their next class. "No, no, no. You can't do that here. No, gentlemen. We walk here, right? We _walk_!" They sheepishly laughed and hopped off their skateboards. Regina waved her index finger at them, and then they were all laughing together, including Christine.

And that was why she liked working there. In life, she searched for these little corners of calm. And places where no one would yell at her and where people smiled lots and frowned little.

She was going to be okay.

Because she had worked so hard to finally _be_ okay, and nothing was going to ruin that now.

* * *

_1974_

"I knew you'd be disappointed! That's why I didn't want to tell you."

"Well, of course I'm disappointed! I—you know, I wanted you to get a good education. Give yourself a chance in this world. I thought you were smarter than that. You're only in your second semester for goodness sakes!"

Maddy nodded, her shoulders hunched. "I know, Auntie. I know! But it just happened so fast. We went out to dinner after this boring party. And he was so handsome and smart. And he'd just gotten back so he had so many interesting stories to tell me."

"From overseas?"

"Yes. But he wasn't over there fighting in those awful jungles. He helped keep all their machinery running. And he said that helicopters can now be used for—"

"Well, have you told him?" Irene interrupted.

"No." Maddy stared down into her herbal tea. "He's so busy with his work. I was embarrassed. I couldn't!"

"So then now what?" Irene spread her hands out with her palms upward, becoming increasingly frustrated.

The younger girl paused and then leaned in, speaking in a softer voice even though they were the only ones there. The white frilly curtains in the kitchen rustled. The lights flickered once. "Kelly—my friend from school. She's going to be a nurse. And, well, she-she told me there was a very fast way to make it go away. Especially this early. So two weeks ago she took me to this place. It was this little brick building deep in the poorer part of the city. She drove me there and said she'd wait."

Irene's heart jumped. "And?"

"And it was…." Maddy's face paled. She took a curly strand of dark hair and twirled it on her index finger. "It was so strange."

"Strange? You mean the decision?"

"No. Well, that was part of it. I was torn. Part of me thought it'd be the best thing for everyone. And the other part of me didn't want to because, you know, I did want children someday. But then-then there was something else."

"What?"

Madeleine chewed on her bottom lip. "You'll think I'm crazy. But do you remember when I was younger? And I would feel like something was with me? I'd call it my friend."

"Yes," Irene murmured with a small shudder. "How could I forget that? You'd cry to me about it sometimes." It had later become their shared joke over the years. Whenever doors would close. Or the radio and, after Irene had given in and purchased one, the television would turn off without anyone pushing a button. Or a carton of milk or juice would tip over for no reason. They would both blame it on the ghost and laugh nervously.

Stranger yet, after Maddy had left to go to college on the west coast, Irene had noticed less peculiar activity in the home. She had felt truly alone there for the last few months. And now that Madeleine had returned, Irene again sensed that presence. An energy. The older woman told herself that she was being ridiculous. There was nothing there, only the two of them sipping tea in the cozy kitchen.

"It was like that again," Maddy softly continued. "When I was in front of that place, I could feel this force holding me back. Like it didn't want me to do that. I know that sounds ridiculous; it was probably just in my head. But I came here for your advice, Auntie. It was the last thing I could think to do."

Irene stared down at the pink tablecloth. "Well, I have my opinions on these things. But it is your decision. You'll have the child. You'll be the mother."

Madeleine frowned, her small nose crinkling. "Well, I guess I already know. I'm going to keep it. It's not what I wanted this soon, but I guess I'll manage."

Irene slowly nodded and then rose and gently embraced her niece. "All right. I guess we'll make do. We'll have to figure out your education, but there are closer colleges. And please consider telling the father, Maddy. Maybe he'll do the right thing."

"All right." Her tone didn't reassure Irene, but she left it alone. "Sometimes I don't feel like I have control over half the stuff that happens to me." Maddy continued to speak, her chin propped upon a fist. "Anyway, I miss it here." She looked around the lighted kitchen. "We baked so many cookies. And read so many stories. And played games. I have so many happy memories."

Irene smiled a little sadly. "I've missed having you here. It's lonely sometimes."

"You haven't tried to meet anyone?" asked Maddy with a small smirk.

"I'm getting too old for that."

"No, you're not!"

"Well, maybe if you thought less about _that_, you wouldn't be in this situation," Irene replied with a huff. "And as long as you're here with me, you will be going back to church. You'll have to hear the new pastor. Reverend Mansart is really excellent. He lives right down the road where Richard's family used to be. He always adds some humor to his sermons, and you can just tell he's a really good person."

"So do you like _him_ then, Auntie?"

"He's married, you silly girl!"

What began as a somewhat gloomy evening turned into a night of laughter. Irene told herself that everything would be okay despite this surprising news. Maddy could continue her education later. And babies were blessings. Irene had enjoyed raising Maddy and recalled the light that the child had brought to her home. She could sew more baby clothes together and buy some more toys, paint the walls and freshen the entire place up. Yes, Irene could see the good in this.

They spent the next few months quietly and as they used to when Madeleine was younger, gardening in the springtime weather and picking strawberries and dancing to music on the radio. Irene also tried to teach her niece a little more about sewing, but Maddy was never all that interested. She was content to be back home, though, and even commented, "I don't feel as terrible as they say you do. I don't get sick, I mean."

"I think it's different for every woman," Irene had replied. "From what I understand, your mother didn't have many symptoms. If any."

"Lucky, I guess," Maddy murmured. She looked like she was about to ask something else, but her mouth closed. They'd had frank discussions about Angela in the past, and Irene had fully admitted that she didn't think her younger sister had been completely sane of mind. Maddy accepted it all well enough.

Yet sometimes—Irene would wonder about things, about Angela's last words. About the _something_ that neither of them could quite describe. But it was so much easier for them both to pretend that it was their imaginations. Because the alternative was unthinkable.

But it wasn't until five months into Maddy's pregnancy that something utterly bizarre occurred. Something that Irene could never get out of her mind.

They were at a local grower's market where nearby farmers would set up stands of freshly grown fruits and vegetables along a nearby road. It was a sunny day, but the wind was strong and coming in long gusts. Several of Irene's shingles had been ripped off during the night, the windows constantly rattling. The vendors at the market continuously had to reinforce their stands and make sure nothing blew away. Many of them were discussing closing early. As Irene looked through a basket of butternut squashes, running her hands over the lumpy yellow skins, Madeleine stood nearby waiting to leave. Despite the warmer weather, she was wearing a long brown tweed coat to hide her pregnancy. Irene had warned her that she'd get too hot in that.

There was a large metal sign nearby, held up by thin steel bars, announcing the presence of a new car lot that had been built just down the road. The sign was gaudy and colored in bright yellows and reds, claiming great prices on used Dodges and Fords. An eyesore, Irene had absentmindedly thought when they pulled up to the roadside marketplace.

While Irene was in line and preparing to pay, a family of five parked near the sign and climbed out of their brown and white station wagon. A plump beagle that practically matched the car in color trotted out with them. The man, wife, and little girl walked to the fruit stands while the two older boys stayed behind and played with the dog. Maddy soon walked up to them and knelt down to give the beagle a scratch behind the ears.

Irene had turned to talk to a farmer. Suddenly, a nearby woman shouted, "Oh no! Oh no! Look out!"

Irene whirled back around. Directly above Maddy, the sign was dangerously tilted on its metal frame, about ready to blow down right on top of her and the dog. Hollering, the two boys started to run out from under it, making their way toward the left. Another gust of wind hit, taking several dollar bills right out of Irene's limp hand. She barely noticed. In her kneeling position, there was no time for Maddy to move as the large chunk of painted metal fell toward her. She could only gape upwards, her mouth frozen open in terror.

"No!" Irene released a choked scream and covered her lips.

Everyone else would claim that the sign simply blew to the left. The strong wind. _Fate._

But Irene knew better. That sign didn't blow away from Maddy. The sign literally hovered in midair, untouched by gravity for a full two seconds. And then, as though shoved by a pair of enormous invisible hands, it swerved to the left. It fell with a scraping, metallic crash, smashing one of the little boys beneath it as the mother now screamed. Several men raced forward to move the sign off the child while the parents continued to shriek.

"Oh my God! Oh my God!"

"Someone call an ambulance!"

Madeleine continued to kneel on the ground, trembling. The frightened dog had scampered several feet away. Irene finally recovered from her shock and ran over to her niece. She knelt, and they gripped onto each other, crying.

The boy survived, but both his legs were badly broken in several places. He recovered but walked with a permanent limp afterwards. And an ordinance was soon passed regarding the quality of signs placed along the roads.

The event left them both somewhat shaken, and Maddy reported not sleeping well over the next few nights. Irene never told Maddy what she had seen that day. She didn't tell anyone. And the only sign that anyone else was aware was when that little boy's mother had given them a squinty-eyed glance in church.

But, of course, what could it have been but the wind?

Because to call it anything else would be admitting that there was something really happening. And that just couldn't be. Things like that didn't occur, and Irene hadn't spent over fifty years being practical to give it all up now.

The eight month arrived. A couple weeks passed.

The evening was calm and peaceful with a bright full moon. Madeleine was lying on the sofa with her feet propped up on a throw pillow, her eyes closed and the laugh track from _The Mary Tyler Moore Show_ ringing out into the room. Irene glanced at her niece's very swollen stomach as she passed by with some folded laundry, wondering how much longer it might be. The lights flickered twice, and that reminded Irene of her next task. Grabbing the yellow phone book off the counter, she went into her bedroom and propped the heavy directory on her legs. She needed to find someone who could fix the worsening lighting problem. Her normal handyman had left town, and she didn't know if he was qualified for this kind of thing anyway. Was it going to result in a whole rewiring? She certainly didn't need the expense.

As she was browsing over the book, focusing in on electricians, a draft of air caught a page and turned it. With a grunt, Irene turned the page back. The thin piece of paper floated forward again. "Oh, for heaven's—"

"_Help me!"_ Maddy's scream suddenly echoed through the home.

Her head snapped up, and Irene started to jump off the bed and make her way toward the door. The white sheet wrapped around her ankle, causing her to stumble and hang upside down over the bedside. Gasping, she twisted around and worked to untangle herself. The sheet seemed to grip onto her more firmly, the knot tightening like a noose on her leg. The door to her room slammed close with a crash, vibrating throughout the house. "No, no, no!" Irene cried. "Someone help me!" Yet no one could hear her. They were alone.

Or perhaps they weren't.

Finally, she got her ankle untangled from the sheets. She ran toward the door and grabbed the silver knob, twisting it with all her might, but it wouldn't budge. She pounded her fist against the door as Madeleine's sobs sounded out. "Auntie, help me!"

"No! Madeleine!" Irene threw herself against the door until her shoulder was sore and bruised. Over and over and over. _Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. _

After five minutes of Maddy crying and Irene hurling herself into the unyielding wood in a horrific cacophony, the door finally gave way. Irene went flying out of the room and onto her hands and knees in the carpeted hallway. With a groan of pain, she crawled forward several feet on her elbows and then forced herself up. "Maddy?! Where are you?"

The lights flickered as Irene followed her niece's sobs into the kitchen. She gaped downwards.

Madeleine's water had clearly broken. She was sitting on the ground with her legs spread beneath her denim skirt and her back up against the sink cabinet, crying and clutching her stomach. Her red face was drenched in sweat that blended with her tears.

"Oh my God. I need to call an ambulance," said Irene, turning toward the living room. "I have to call an ambulance. Hold on. Please hold on."

Maddy shook her head, her limp curls flying in every different direction. "No. Please don't leave me. Please," she sobbed. "There isn't time now! There isn't time!"

Irene had to at least make the call. Even if it was too late, someone would still be on the way to help in the aftermath.

She picked up the phone, her hand hovering over the rotary dial. "No! Damn it!" She cursed for maybe the fifth time in her life and slammed the receiver back into its holder.

The phone was dead.

"_Auntie, it's coming!" _


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks to this chapter, I've read enough articles to deliver an emergency baby. Lol. I tried to not be overly graphic with the birth, but some details were necessary for realism.

Thanks to everyone for all the reviews and support. It's time to meet Erik :) I'm hoping to make this one a little less Kay and a little more Leroux. We shall see how that goes.

_1974_

"Oh, God. Oh, God. Okay." Irene placed her perspiring face into her hands. "You'll have to do this. Okay. God help me." She whispered this to herself and took several deep breaths. For now, she pushed what had happened in the bedroom from her mind. Coming back to her niece's side in the kitchen, she knelt. "Maddy, sweetheart. Look at me." Pained dark eyes gazed up at her. "If it's coming, then it's coming. We'll have to do this together and get more help later. Okay?"

Maddy slowly nodded. A gasp escaped her lips, and her face scrunched up in pain. "It happened so fast," she managed to whisper. "And then I called and called for you."

"I know. I couldn't get to you. But let's not worry about that now. We'll get through this. Women have been doing it for thousands of years." Irene had never birthed a baby, but she had heard many stories growing up in rural areas. It could go well, or it could be a complete disaster. This one was progressing very rapidly; she hoped that didn't mean anything bad for the baby or mother.

Irene quickly gathered some towels and a wet, warm washcloth. As the lights flickered, she helped her niece remove her lower clothing and tried to situate her into the best position for a quick birth. Exhausted and trembling, Maddy became dizzy and wanted to lie back, so Irene worked with this instead. The next ten minutes went as one would expect. Gasping and pushing and panting and crying.

Her own heart pounding, Irene murmured reassurances. The flashing lights were going to give her a seizure soon. The windows rattled, and there was no breeze that night. A thick presence hung around them, an invisible sheet that felt suffocating. The lights dimmed. "Oh. I see it," Irene whispered.

"Thank God! It hurts so much!"

Beginning to finally feel relief, Irene reached down to slowly guide the head out. "Gently keep pushing," she told a sobbing Maddy. Irene's own forehead was drenched in sweat. Yet the home seemed strangely colder than it had earlier.

With a cry, Madeleine gave a fierce push. Irene saw shoulders and arms. "Almost there." An eerie silence passed as Irene worked to turn the newborn all the way around. She felt all color drain from her face. Irene blinked rapidly, but the image didn't go away. Her bloodied hands nearly dropped, and she closed her eyes as a wave of nausea washed over her. "Oh…."

"What?" Maddy whispered, unable to see and out of breath. "Is it here?"

"Don't look, Maddy. Please don't look."

"_Why?"_

"I'm so sorry." A sob escaped Irene's lips. "But it's not alive. The baby's not alive. I'm so, so sorry. Don't look!" Yet Irene forced herself to glance down again. She suppressed a choke as vomit rose up in the back of her throat. She had seen dead people before but never one in an actual state of decay. And certainly never an infant. Had it started to rot in the womb? Was that even possible? "I'm so sorry." Madeleine only stared up at the ceiling and released a soft cry.

Unable to look at the face again, Irene still gathered the tiny corpse into several thick towels and bundled it up. As best as she could without becoming ill, she cleaned off the nearly translucent white skin with the washcloth. With sharp scissors, she quickly dealt with the cord, using threads as clamps and not taking much care. Because what did it matter now? She made sure its face remained hidden so that her niece never had to see.

Would they bury it in baby clothes? It was a stray thought that passed through her mind. _Something blue…._

All the lights in the house snapped off at once. Irene gasped, and Maddy moaned. Slowly, Irene found her niece's hand, squeezing it for mutual comfort. "We'll be fine."

And then, in the pitch-black darkness, something cried. Irene jumped.

"I thought you said it was dead," said Madeleine with a choke. Irene could feel her try to sit up. "It's not! It's crying! It's not dead at all! Oh, it's alive!"

"No," Irene whispered, placing a hand over heart. "It can't be—"

"What's wrong? It's alive! It's alive, Auntie. And we can't even see anything."

"Maddy…."

"What is it? Boy or girl?" Madeleine eagerly asked.

"Boy."

_Because it-it might be a boy, Renie. It might be a b-boy._

The noise was most definitely a baby's cry, yet it was one of the prettiest ones that Irene had ever heard. Musical like a chorus of angels singing in unison—almost lulling the listener into sleep. But how could it-_he_ possibly be alive?

"Can I hold him while you find some candles?" Maddy softly asked.

"Maddy—there's something you should know."

"What? Let me hold him! He's mine, isn't he?" Madeleine was grappling for the baby in the dark. Finally, she found the bundle of towels, and Irene didn't stop her from scooping him up. The infant quieted as he was held. "We'll have to name him. What's wrong, Auntie? Why are you being so strange?"

_Please let the lights stay off until I can tell her._

Yet it was as though the fourth party in that room wanted everything to disintegrate as quickly as possible. It fed off their fear and horror.

"Maddy, listen to me," Irene quickly began, leaning forward. "The baby's face! It's—"

The lights flashed on again.

A silence passed as their eyes adjusted.

Irene's eardrums were shattered as Madeleine screeched. The baby screamed as he was dropped a short distance to the kitchen floor, the towels somewhat breaking the fall. Leaving a spotty trail of blood behind her, Madeleine groaned and scrambled on her hands and knees to the nearest corner of the kitchen. She curled up into a ball. The windows rattled, and the floor seemed to shake beneath them.

Irene didn't feel sane in this nightmare. She wanted to run inside her closet and do as Madeleine was now doing, huddle into herself until it all went away. Irene glanced down at the uninjured baby with a hand over her mouth, still unable to believe that he was actually breathing and crying and moving. Shaking her head, she went to her niece and again knelt at her side. They could no longer handle this alone.

"Madeleine, look at me. Right now. Look at me, dear." The young girl slowly gazed up with a vacant expression. "I need to find help. Do you understand? But the phone is dead. So I need to try to find someone else or another phone."

"No! Don't leave me here with them!" Maddy panicked. "Not with them."

"With _them_?" Irene whispered. She didn't continue that conversation further. "Or I can try to take both you and the baby to a hospital. And maybe they can do something to fix…well, all of this."

Maddy shook her head and spoke in a rambling and mumbled voice. "No! If you take the baby, the other one will come with you. Because it wants the baby. And not me. It said it didn't want me anymore. So I'm okay here. I'm free! And you can be okay, too, Auntie. Just get rid of it, and they'll both go away. They'll both go away forever!"

"Sweetheart, I think you're ill. You're not making any sense." Irene spoke very slowly, as though talking to a small child. "We need to get you to a hospital."

"No! I'm not going with you until you make them both go away!"

"Fine," Irene said, running a hand over her face. "Fine." She didn't have the strength to both get the baby obviously needed medical attention and to force her traumatized niece to come with them. "Are you in a lot of pain?" Maddy shook her head. The bleeding had nearly stopped and the placenta had been expelled; there was no immediate evidence that Maddy was in danger. "I am going to take the baby, and I'm going to find help now. You wait here until I can get you help, too. Don't move. Okay?" Maddy only stared forward into space. Irene spread a wood blanket over her and placed a folded fleece covering beside her bare feet.

As she dug out an infant carrier that they had recently purchased, Irene wondered if the baby would even survive the journey. He had to be near death, right? And yet his cry was so strong and healthy….

She considered driving straight to the hospital but didn't want to leave Maddy alone for that long. Maybe a friend would help them? After making sure the straps in the carrier were secure, Irene put the infant on the floor of the passenger's seat. They hadn't put a car seat in the vehicle yet, and there was no time to mess with that now. Her hand trembled with the car keys as she forced them into the ignition. The baby cried next to her, which both made her nervous and also want to fall asleep. That was a toxic combination for driving. Irene turned the key. The Ford Torino made a rumbling noise but wouldn't start. She tried again. The engine sputtered. And again. And again. "No, no! Damn it! No!" Again and again.

Irene leaned forward and collapsed sobbing onto the steering wheel. Her headlights flashed on and off. Her horn blared. The baby wailed. And for several minutes there was simply no hope or solution—only loud, chaotic noise.

As she finally raised her head with tears streaming down her cheeks, Irene looked to the side and saw something slowly coming forward down the road. Approaching headlights, their bright yellow glow a last of beacon of hope. Someone was coming! Irene gasped and stumbled out of her car. She waved both arms at the vehicle, immediately recognizing the light green paint. The car quickly pulled to the side nearest her, sending a cloud of dust into the air. A familiar man jumped out. "Irene? Are you okay?"

His voice was deep and pleasant. He was tall with salt and pepper hair and a lean build. His face was always clean shaven, and his clothes were always pressed. Even though he was married, Irene supposed she did have a slight fondness for him. And now he was her savior.

She ran toward him at full speed with her arms out in front of her, terrified that the _something_ would stop her. But she made it and nearly collapsed in his arms, gripping onto him for dear life. "What in the world?" he asked. "What's wrong? Are you in trouble? Is someone out here?" He looked toward her crazed vehicle. "What's going on with your car?"

"Reverend, please help me. _Please._ Maddy just gave birth. And-and-"

"Oh! Did you call for an ambulance?"

"My phone is dead," she sobbed. "My car won't start."

"Oh, wow! Well, that is terrible luck! Let me go to my house and try my phone. Or maybe I should just take you there myself. It's a twenty minute drive, I think. Let me—"

"Wait!" she gasped, grabbing his shoulder. "Please stay for a second. You don't understand what I'm…. Please just see what I'm-I'm…."

"But I'm not a doctor. I can't really help—" He again looked at her Ford. "Did you leave something on the horn? What happened to your car?"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you!" Irene gripped the front of his shirt. "My niece is nearly catatonic. My great nephew has the face of someone who's been dead for a month. And there is _something_ out here!"

"What? Your great nephew what?"

She ran back to her crazed car and pulled out the infant carrier from the passenger side. As soon as she did so, the vehicle quieted and the lights stopped flashing. The baby continued to softly cry. Irene brought him to Reverend Mansart and held up the carrier. "Brace yourself," she murmured before pulling back the towel.

"Oh my." Even in the dim light, she could see his handsome face pale as he quickly averted his eyes from the infant's face. "Well. I've never see anything like-Well, we have to get him to a hospital, right? Maybe they can do something. We have to pray for that." He glanced toward her car. "Where's Maddy? She must need help, too."

"She's inside. She won't come because she thinks the thing will follow the baby."

"The _thing_?"

"The thing," she miserably replied as though finally acknowledging its existence. "You know, I'm afraid it might tip the car over if we try to go. Blow out a tire. Knock a tree or sign on top of us. It doesn't want me to go. It's been trying to stop me all night. I don't understand. Angela, she—this is all her fault! It—I can't- I don't-"

"Woah. Calm down. Take a deep breath." The Reverend gripped her shoulders and looked her in the eye. "All right. Let's go inside for a moment and find Maddy. Then we'll figure out the rest." Irene slowly nodded and swallowed her panic. He glanced at the infant as they walked up the driveway. "The baby seems healthy enough, doesn't he? Given the circumstances."

"He does. I don't understand how that could be. I don't understand anything right now."

Gripping the baby carrier, Irene quickly led him inside her home. As soon as they entered, the lights began to flicker again. Ignoring them, she quickly walked into the kitchen to check on her niece. Now covered in both blankets, Madeleine was still huddled in the corner and staring at the floor. She looked up when they entered. "Reverend!" Maddy yelled, reaching up for him with her fingers spread. "Please help!"

"It'll be fine, Maddy," he murmured. Yet Reverend Mansart stared at all of it with wide eyes. The windows rattled, and the radio turned on and off, switching stations each time. His face paled, and he stepped backwards. One of his hands reached out and gripped the back of a wooden chair. "God help us."

"Do you see?" whispered Irene. "What is it? What's happening?"

"I know what you're asking me," he hoarsely replied, continuing to gaze around the home and take steps backward. To Irene's relief, he managed to keep himself from running out the door. "But, Irene, that's not my…. I'm not trained in this sort of thing. I've heard some stories in seminary and at conferences. But I can't tell you what this is." He paused and took a deep breath. "But I can feel it." He closed his eyes. "I've never felt anything like it. I've never seen anything like this. So much evil in one place..."

"We've always felt it," said Irene, hugging her arms against her chest. She briefly described their experiences and told him about Angela's last moments. "Does that help? Do you have any idea?"

"No. I don't know," he admitted. "I have no experience with any of this. But I will try to find you someone who does. I promise."

The baby began to cry very loudly. Maddy flinched at the sound and curled into herself. "No, no, no," the young girl muttered.

"I bet he's hungry," said Irene in a weary voice. "We bought some powdered formula in case of some type of emergency. Not a lot, but it'll do for tonight."

"Shouldn't Madeleine—"

Irene gave him a harsh look. "If you can persuade her to get near that baby, you're a much more powerful man than you say you are."

A silence passed as they stood under the flashing lights of the kitchen and tried to decide where to go from there. Suddenly, the Reverend placed a hand on his chin in thought. He looked between Maddy and the baby. "Hmm."

"What?" asked Irene.

"It's just a feeling, I guess, based on what you've told me. So don't take it as truth. But, whatever is in this house—I think it wants us to abandon the baby. And it wants Maddy to fear him."

"But that doesn't make any sense," Irene replied, standing beside him and wringing her hands. "If she doesn't take care of him, won't he die?"

"That's a good point. But hm. Don't mind me here." Reverend Mansart took several steps toward the infant carrier. He made a tight fist with his right hand and raised it high into the air. He quickly began to bring it down as though to pummel the baby.

"What are you doing?!" exclaimed Irene. Just as she spoke, the Reverend stumbled backward and into the kitchen counter with a thud. It looked as though someone had shoved him in the chest. "Oh!"

Reverend Mansart groaned and rubbed his back as he steadied himself. His expression became more disturbed now that he had actually felt it. "I'm fine. But there you have it. I think it would take a lot to harm that infant," he somberly stated. "Far more than starvation. Or lack of care or medical attention."

"The sign," Irene murmured. "The _thing_ stopped it from crushing Maddy when she was pregnant." She shook her head in horror. "What can we do? How do we stop this?!"

"Like I said, I'll find you some real help. In the meantime, I don't know. I guess you can resist it. If it wants the baby, don't give in. Or—"

"Or what?" whispered Irene.

"Or do the wrong but easier thing. The bad thing. Give it what it wants."

Irene slowly nodded and briefly considered each option. After a moment, she knelt beside Madeleine and took the girl's cold, clammy hand. "Sweetheart, did you hear the Reverend? If you hold your baby and maybe feed him, you'll be helping. That will help fight this terrible thing in our home. We have to fight it."

Maddy shook her head back and forth. "I can't! Please don't make me! Please just make it go away! Please, Auntie!"

"Oh, Maddy," Irene whispered. "I can put a blanket over his face, if that will help. I could even sew him a little mask."

"Leave me alone! Get me out of here, or leave me alone!"

Irene withdrew and sat down on the kitchen floor, defeated and still unable to believe all of this. The Reverend crouched and placed a hand on her shoulder. "I'll call someone who can help," he said. "I promise."

"Is this like that movie that came out last year?" Irene sickly asked. She hadn't even seen it, but she'd heard it was completely terrifying. A little girl—possessed by a horrific demon.

"I don't know." He sighed and stood. "Let me take Maddy to the hospital. She needs to be away from here, and someone should examine her. I think she's in shock right now. Maybe after she's had some time away, she'll come around."

"What about the baby?"

His green eyes became sadder. "Like you said earlier, I'm—Well, I'm terrified that my car might flip over. I have two kids, Irene. I'm sorry."

"I understand."

"I don't think the baby is in physical danger. I don't think he needs a medical professional. The face—nothing can change that now. And I think you need a different sort of professional."

They helped a trembling Madeleine to the front door. The young girl clung to the Reverend's side, crying.

"One more favor," said Irene as she watched them leave and desperately wished she could go with them.

"Yes?" Reverend Erik Mansart asked, turning toward her with very tired eyes.

"Can I name him after you? Maybe it would be good luck in this…situation. Naming him after a man of God."

"Of course. Erik's a good, strong name. At least I've always thought so." They shared a very somber chuckle.

When they were gone, Irene walked like a zombie into the kitchen and prepared the formula. She managed to feed the baby from the carrier with her eyes focused on the wall. She wept as she did so. As the lights flashed and the radio turned on and the television turned off. Because she didn't think any of them were ever going to be okay again.

How much more of this could she handle before she simply gave the _thing_ what it wanted?

* * *

_2014_

He wondered if someone had yet discovered that a four thousand dollar mahogany casket was missing.

It'd taken a little effort to get it down there. He'd paid a couple of deviants through a third party to deliver the coffin. And then monitored their work from the shadows to make sure that the idiots didn't mess up or learn too much about his new hideaway. The ordeal had been well worth it, though. The death box had a soft white interior and golden hinges. It was the most luxurious one he could find in the area.

He supposed university students didn't heavily invest in caskets. They believed themselves to be invincible at that age with their fast vehicles and over-consumption of substances. How very wrong they were. Because, if anyone knew about invincibility, it was him.

He taunted with the coffin. _ I am as good as dead now. See this? _

This box was the closest he could come to death. He remembered his attempt at peace three years ago. That had been the only time _it_ had ever taken physical control of him. An actual possession, he supposed. _It _had gathered every bit of strength and power, forcing him to remove the pistol from his mouth and set the weapon down upon the table.

That was the moment he'd understood, through a thought fed into his mind, that his sentence would last at least another forty or fifty years. A natural lifetime-that had been the bargain, a bargain that he'd had no say in. The knowledge had enraged him. Objects had shattered. A violin had been smashed on someone's head.

So that was the deal. Fine. He would find another way. Or make do.

Unfortunately, _its_ anger was physically manifesting.

Except for two days in his life-two days that he barely remembered and that had ultimately led him to this point-he'd always been hideous. But now his skin was actually disintegrating. Blisters and sores covered every inch of his body. He bled red once the gashes in his dry flesh were too deep. Otherwise, there was nothing human about his appearance. He even smelled of a corpse now—dank and moldy. He imagined he would soon reek of actual decay.

Still, he was apathetic to all of this. He would not listen to_ it_.

And that's why _it_ was irate.

After spending two decades in the Middle East doing _its_ bidding, he was tired of being a slave and bored with being a puppet. The role was beneath him. Without _its_ favor, he could have nothing. But there was nothing he really wanted anymore. Not for the price.

That evening, in a damp basement several yards below the earth, he rubbed ointment onto each inch of his flesh to ease the burning pain. The clear cream was somewhat soothing.

Tomorrow, he would continue his never-ending search. For now, he would rest.

Standing, he turned on Beethoven's Symphony No. 5 on an old portable record player. He preferred the unique sound quality to that of CDs, digital music, and everything else mankind had created in the name of progress. As though _progress _would save them all. He climbed into the coffin and closed his eyes.

After about five minutes, the music suddenly snapped off.

His hollowed eyes opened, and his twisted lips curved upward.

He found it rather comical that _it_ had resorted to such asinine behavior. How pathetically desperate.

"Erik is winning," he softly taunted, embracing the silence instead.


	4. Chapter 4

So after this chapter, there will be one more major flashback, and then we'll stay primarily in the present. Thank you so much for all the kind reviews.

_1974_

Madeleine never came back.

The Reverend had been good enough to return three days later and stay with the baby while Irene visited her niece at the hospital. He took a slow seat at the kitchen table, clutching a silver cross with his right hand, nervously glancing up at the lights. For whatever reason, the home had quieted somewhat since the night of the birth. All the appliances and the phone were working again, but Irene didn't dare take the baby anywhere in the car. Little Erik slept in a carrier at Reverend Mansart's feet, by all appearances a corpse save for the rise and fall of his little chest.

Before leaving, Irene weakly asked the Reverend why the thing hadn't injured or even killed them by this point. It had only seriously hurt someone when the baby was directly threatened.

Reverend Mansart hesitated before answering, "Well, let's not tempt it. Maybe there are rules. Maybe…." His eyes settled on the carrier. He frowned toward the sleeping infant and then softly continued, "Maybe that's why it wants a human being in the first place-to do what it cannot."

Irene covered her mouth with her hand as a chill raced through her blood. Then again, what had she been expecting the thing to want? World peace? Its evil intentions could be felt in every corner of the house.

Irene approached Maddy's bedside in the hospital. Covered in a sterile white blanket, her niece was pale and had dark circles beneath her eyes. They exchanged a sideways hug, and Maddy said she was in no pain. The doctors had found no internal injuries. Madeleine would recover fully, at least physically. Irene hesitantly asked, "When do you think you'll come home then?"

Maddy looked away. "Are you keeping him?"

"Yes. Of course." Irene clasped her hand. "Maddy, he's your baby!"

"No, he's not." She shook her head back and forth as though willing away a bad dream. "He belongs to the other one. Couldn't you see that?"

"The Reverend thinks we have choices. We can fight this."

"I can't," Maddy whispered. "Didn't you see what he looks like?"

"Yes. But maybe with time-"

"If the face were our only problem, oh, maybe…maybe I would try. But the thing will always be there. Until it kills us! One day it will kill us."

"We don't know that."

"Come with me, Auntie. Let's leave and go somewhere else. Come with me back to school. We'll be safe and have fun together. We can forget this ever happened."

"I can't just abandon the baby," Irene murmured. "He's as innocent in this as we are."

Maddy looked away, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the sheets, perhaps afraid that Irene would drag her away. "I can't go back there. Even if that thing doesn't kill me, I'll lose my mind if I go back there."

Irene knew that she was going to lose this argument. "Did…did the thing actually speak to you?" she finally asked. "That night, you seemed to know that it didn't want you anymore. Did you hear it?"

Maddy shuddered. "No. But it was like I suddenly had a thought in my head that wasn't mine. Not a voice, only a thought. And it told me I would be okay. If I—"

"Abandoned your baby?" Irene offered and then felt guilty. Maddy again looked away. Irene leaned forward and embraced her. They both cried into each other's shoulders for several minutes. "I love you, Maddy. You're like my daughter. Whatever you decide, that won't change. But I wish…."

Maddy used the blanket to wipe away her tears. "Please come with me," she hoarsely begged. "You'll get hurt if you stay!"

"I can't, dear," Irene replied, drawing back. "I can't just surrender to this thing. It doesn't feel right. Whatever Angela started, I want to stop it. Before anyone else is hurt."

Within a week, Madeleine left to stay with a friend until she could return to school. Once classes began, she more or less pretended that the last nine months had never existed. Whenever she and Irene phoned each other, they never discussed the baby or the thing. Madeleine would only hesitantly ask how everything was going, and Irene would promptly reply that everything was just fine. Irene would then listen while Maddy talked about school, parties, and cute boys. In some ways, those chirpy conversations were Irene's own sort of escape.

She desperately dug through old family records to see if there was pertinent information about the past. Absolutely nothing. Finding a few phone numbers, she tried to call acquaintances from years ago who had lived near Angela. They had either left the area or died, and no one had any clue as to what Irene was talking about. _Who's Angela? _

She finally got into touch with an elderly man who said that, after her marriage, Angela would often run into the nearby woods with a raven-haired girl. They would disappear into the trees barefoot and carrying white cloth sacks; they would stay until dark. A couple of boys had eventually stumbled across a decapitated squirrel, and a young couple found bundles of sticks that had been tied together with ropes into strange pointy shapes. Neighbors began to whisper that the girls had to be involved in some strange sort of rituals, but, of course, the world was too modern by that time to make official accusations.

"And I don't believe in that sorta thing," said the man with a snort. "I think them two girls were off foolin' around like some womenfolk like to do, if you catch my drift. Not that I pay mind to that; I mind my own business 'bout that stuff. But I think they was back there kissin'—not doin' the black magic."

The man said that this other girl had eventually disappeared altogether, perhaps moving away. Angela had then, to her husband's relief, quietly settled down and stopped racing off into the woods. That was the end of the old man's tale. Irene found nothing that told her the identity of this other girl.

Reverend Mansart did as he promised. Over the next year, Irene hesitantly welcomed a long string of visitors into her home. Priests, of course. A sheikh. A rabbi. Mystics and seers and a woman who claimed she could talk to the dead. A couple of them ran out of the house screaming, especially if the thing was in a particularly terrible mood, rattling windows and slamming doors shut. Some didn't believe her at all if they arrived when the thing was too calm. They would make comments like, "You're just doing this because that awful movie came out and you want attention."

To Irene's relief, her home was isolated enough not to attract too much notice from newspapers or television stations. She hung up on nosy busybodies when they called. And, oddly, the thing became very quiet and calm when journalists approached the house. For whatever reason, _it _didn't seem to want to draw too much attention to itself either.

Some religious figures completely believed her and did try to help. Ultimately, though, they would tell her that this was beyond them. No amount of chanting verses from holy books or holy water or crosses or even prayers would make the thing go away. Then there was one medium who said: "What you need are many more crystals. Crystals will help you fight the negative energy. You want me to get you crystals? I give you a big discount."

"No, thank you," Irene had replied, rubbing a hand over her aching forehead. "I think we've done what we can do for today." As though the thing agreed with her, a door in the house randomly slammed, thereby waking up the baby. The woman ran out of the house in a flash of green and purple scarves.

Except for the very obvious, the baby was generally like any other during his first year. He ate and napped and cried. His occasionally visible yellow eyes were much more intelligent than the eyes of other infants. He could focus quickly on movement, and his reflexes were fast. If Irene dangled anything in front of him, his tiny hand would grab the object before she could react. Whenever Irene was around little Erik, she could feel him watching her, studying her. She could also sense the thing hovering around him.

All of this combined created constant anxiety. Her stomach was tied into a knot, and her headaches became progressively worse. Even on nights when the baby didn't wake her, she received little sleep. Only Reverend Mansart's visits once a week gave her a chance to escape the house and shop or get a haircut or just…_breathe_ for a moment.

Sensing her desperation, Reverend Mansart finally secured her a visitor who gave her the closest thing to an answer. He was a very elderly priest summoned all the way from Italy, a portly man with a very thick accent. He walked through the house in his black robe, studying it all through thick glasses beneath bushy grey eyebrows. His hands stayed clasped behind his broad back. He barely reacted as the light flickered and only tilted his head to the side and clicked his tongue three times when she showed him the baby's bare face. Usually, she put a white cloth mask on Erik whenever visitors came to the house so as not to upset them. The elderly priest insisted on viewing Erik immediately, though. At the very least, he seemed to be a man who had witnessed some horrible things in his lifetime.

Finally, the priest stopped walking and motioned for Irene to sit with him at the kitchen table. "Do you want anything to drink?" Irene asked, nervously wringing her hands.

"No."

She nodded and took a seat across from him. He stared down at the table and pursed his large lips together. He cleared his throat.

"Well?" Irene asked, growing increasingly desperate.

"I cannot 'elp you," he said, finally looking up. "I am sorry."

"_Why?"_ she snapped, unable to hide her frustration. "Why can't you help me? You were highly recommended. You've done things like this before!"

"This not like that," he said, taking her shaking hand into his wrinkled ones. "This is a bargain. So _esorcismo_ will not work."

"A bargain? What on earth is the difference? It's a possession, isn't it?"

"It's not what you think. Possession is…unnatural…unstable. Ah!" He spotted a baby toy on the carpet, one where you insert colorful wooden blocks into holes that match their shape. Picking up the toy, the priest took a square and tried to force it into a circular hole. "See? Not fit well. That is what you are thinking of. Possession."

"Then what is _this_?" she whispered, spreading out her hands with the palms up.

He hesitated and then placed the square block next to the circular block. "The child was born to 'ave it. A companion. A bargain was made with-I do not know." But he gestured to the floor and whatever was beneath it.

"So it's a possession that nothing can be done about?"

"It's not as you think," he reiterated.

"What do you mean?!" Irene nearly shouted.

The old man tightened his grip on her hands. "_Spontanea volontà_," he stated, unfazed by her frustration. "Free will. There is still free will."

"I don't understand."

"Erik can choose to listen or not. It cannot control Erik unless Erik chooses to obey."

"Oh," Irene whispered. She considered this in the silence. "So he just needs to ignore it? Is that what you're saying? He can choose to ignore it?"

"Yes." Irene nearly started to feel better, but then the priest frowned and hesitantly added, "But it will be _very _difficult. To not listen to _it _will be very…." He paused. "You must teach Erik that his time on Earth will be full of pain. _Tortura._ He will not have a good life without the evil one's favor. This is a terrible, terrible bargain." He sadly shook his head.

"And what if he does listen to it?" Irene dared to ask.

"Erik may be rewarded; others will suffer very terribly."

She sickly swallowed as it all became painfully clear. "So I'm supposed to teach Erik not to listen to it—for the good of everyone else. But also that is life will be awful if he doesn't listen to it. And he's just supposed to…_endure_ it? That's what I have to explain?"

"When Erik is older, yes. _And_ that reward will come in next life, yes? Yes?"

"Yes," Irene whispered, staring at her lap.

Before he left, the priest turned, touched her shoulder, and said, "It is very, very dangerous here. You must know that, too. The other one doesn't want you here. It's dangerous."

"Then what should I do?"

"Be strong," was his simple and unhelpful reply. "I will study this more and return later. When Erik is older, it will be easier to see…."

"To see what?"

"To see whether the child listens to it."

* * *

_2014_

She was feeling off that day.

Here Christine had been so eager to convince Raoul that she was completely normal, and she was feeling a little…wrong. It'd begun at work during an afternoon shift. Head tingles-and a little stronger than usual. She could barely concentrate on her schoolwork, which put her further behind than she wanted to be.

She took a deep breath as she went to meet her boyfriend and mentally pulled herself together. It would be okay. Maybe school was making her a little more stressed-all those long syllabuses and assignments stretched out before her. A massive group project. But it would be okay. His calm smiled immediately reassured her of this.

She had seen Raoul quite a few times before he'd actually asked her out; there'd been something slightly familiar about him. He was usually with a group of his peers walking through the library, maybe studying or working on a project. Raoul always had a smile on his face and looked like he was having a good time. Sometimes he was dressed in a nice shirt and tie, which made her guess that he was also employed. It was easy to tell that he had his life together. Yet he also didn't have that cocky edge that some guys she'd encountered on campus had, as though she owed them something. Her father hadn't been perfect, but he'd instilled some semblance of self-respect in her. She'd still been somewhat cautious when Raoul had first approached.

He was doing a marketing survey for a class. It was about pizza.

"I don't eat a lot of pizza. It makes me feel kind of sick." Bloated was the right word, but she wasn't about to share that with the cute blond guy who actually happened to be talking to her.

"Oh. Okay."

"What's the next one?" she'd asked, trying to take a peek at his piece of paper.

"Um. How often do you eat it? So I guess that's never for you." He marked something with his pen and glanced over his other questions. "Yeah. These will be pretty much all the same for you."

"Oh. Okay." They'd stood there for several awkward seconds.

"Um. I'm actually trying to think of an excuse to keep talking to you." She'd giggled at his honesty. "I see you around here."

"Yeah, I work here." _Duh, Christine._ She tried to glance at his papers again. "So do you really even have a project?"

"Yeah. I'm not that bad! It's a real live marketing plan." He held it up, and she could see the questions and notes. "Big pain."

"Well, here. I think my coworkers are bigger pizza eaters than I am. Let me give it to them."

"That would be great! Thanks."

"Sure. You could even leave a stack on the table."

"Thanks. And so yeah…I've got another question for you. But not for the project."

So he'd asked her out to dinner at a high-end Italian place. After a month, she realized why he'd seemed familiar. During a movie, Christine had suddenly exclaimed: "Sylvia's party!"

He'd turned and blinked at her in the dark theater. "Oh my God. Yes. I forgot all about that. But yeah. That is hilarious."

The lady in front of them turned and gave a loud: _"Sh!"_

When Christine was six, her father would sometimes do handyman jobs for wealthier people, roof repairs, caulking, and that sort of thing. Somehow, he'd gotten into a conversation with one of the rich women, and Christine had been invited to her daughter's birthday party. Christine knew her father had done it to help his quiet daughter find some playmates, but the entire experience had been awkward. She'd stood on the outside of a group of girls dressed in frilly dresses as they played with colorful ponies, brushing their neon manes and pretending to feed them. They all knew each other and gave Christine strange looks and whispered about why she was there at all. "Mommy said she had to come," was Sylvia's reply.

Yet she hadn't been the only awkward one. Sylvia's cousin had also been invited, and he appeared just as miserable as Christine was, especially as the other girls glanced at him and giggled. Eventually, he and Christine had run off together to play on the swings and sandbox in the giant backyard. At least until the group of girls, led by little Sylvia, had begun the chant: _"Christine and Raoul sitting in a tree!" _

"How is dear Sylvia?" Christine had asked once they made this discovery.

"She got really into animal rights. Last time I had dinner with her, I got a lecture on why ordering a steak was pretty much akin to murder. So yeah."

"Wow. I guess playing with those ponies had an effect on her."

The knowledge brought them together a little faster, and they'd now spent a happy year and a half together. Christine had felt bad over the fact that he'd chosen to go there for his MBA instead of a more prominent business school, but Raoul said he had multiple reasons for that decision. And that she was a good enough reason anyway, so 'please don't even worry about it.'

But asking Christine not to worry was sometimes like asking the Earth not to revolve around the sun.

She was reminded of this on their date that night at a cute Thai restaurant with glass tabletops and various plants hanging from the ceiling. Raoul was complaining about his father. His parents lived about three hours away, and he visited them once a month or so. "He wouldn't shut up last weekend." Raoul deepened his voice to mock him. "'You should have gone to Wharton. Your brother's already in the real estate market. Are you investing in anything? You kids have no work ethic. You expect everything to be handed to you!' And then he went on a long rant against the government. Jeez, Dad. Turn off the talk radio, right?"

She laughed but still felt a little guilty about Raoul's schooling again. While she'd only met him a couple of times, Christine generally liked Raoul's father but was also intimidated by him. Nathan Chagny had been on the defense of his college football team and still looked the part with his blond buzz cut and broad shoulders. He was loud and usually friendly, telling stories about hunting for lions in Africa. But being his son was something different, she supposed.

"What does your mother do when he rants?" she asked.

"Pretends something important is going on in the kitchen. Or, 'That's wonderful, dear. I think I hear my phone.'"

"That's funny."

"Ugh," said Raoul. "If I'm like that when I'm old, slap me." He shook his head and took a bite of noodle soup. "So I've been hogging the whole conversation. How are you?"

"Good. I'm…good. Taking three classes."

"Great. Still psychology, right?"

"Um, no." She swallowed a piece of shrimp and shifted, kind of embarrassed over the fact that she kept switching majors. "That was last semester. Musical therapy now. The school just started offering it." And before psychology it had been music education. And before that—voice performance.

"Ah. Got you. Cool. Yeah, I bet that could be beneficial. Whenever I was feeling down, I would turn on some music."

"Yeah. I like it."

"Great, great. Work going well?"

"Yeah. Very well." A pause followed. She needed to learn to hold up her end of the conversations better. Raoul told her she was a wonderful listener, but Christine knew that trait would only get her so far. "We got some new books. Well, not _new_ books. New old books. Like really old ones that you can't get anywhere else. Regina said some of them are worth thousands."

"Very cool! Much more fun than anything at my job."

Her stomach clenched as they finished dinner. And she knew it wasn't the spicy food. She planned on telling him tonight, and the looming conversation was making her nervous.

She had two major worries. The first was that Raoul would freak out and break up with her, but she didn't actually think that would happen. The other one, the more plausible one, was that he would worry _too_ much. Like her father had. Charley Daae had nearly become a helicopter parent—checking on her every few minutes when she was out with friends…calling the school to make sure she was okay. Finally, she'd sat him down and said, "Dad, I'm going to be fine. But only if you'll _let_ me be fine."

Her father had hugged her with tears in his blue eyes. "You're right, sweetheart. I just…that was the scariest thing. I thought I was losing you."

Christine missed him terribly now and regretted some of the times she'd pushed him away as all adolescents tended to do with their parents. In fact, his death three years ago had put a dangerous amount of stress on her shoulders. Still, she had gotten through it with her sanity intact.

"You look nervous," Raoul interrupted her thoughts with a chuckle. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Definitely. But-but there is something we need to talk about tonight."

"Uh-oh." His eyes widened, and he gripped the edges of the table, teasing her. "The sentence that no guy wants to hear ever."

"Um." She attempted a laugh, but it sounded more like a cough. "Exactly!"

He looked back and forth. "Okay. I found my escape exit. We're good." Raoul took her hand. "No, go ahead. What's up?"

"So it's actually about something that happened when I was a lot younger. Around fourteen."

"Okay." Raoul relaxed, maybe as he realized she wasn't angry at him over anything.

"So I got kind of sick."

"Oh?" He waited for her to continue, but she stared at the table. The cloth beneath the glass had pretty designs, white seabirds and waterfalls. "So like with the flu? Or something more serious?"

"More serious," she admitted, glancing up.

"Like what?"

"Well…." Ten seconds passed.

"Like err…cancer?"

"Yes." She felt horrified as soon as the lie left her lips. _What the heck is wrong with you? _

"Oh. Wow. That must have been really hard at that age. What kind?" There was nothing but gentle concern on Raoul's face.

She closed her eyes. "No. Sorry. Not that."

"What?"

"I didn't have cancer," she mumbled.

"Oh." He blinked several times. "So something else?"

Raoul probably thought she was completely nuts, which was going to do nothing for her case. Her cold hands were trembling. "I'm sorry. I can't do this right now. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I mean, I wish you'd tell me. Whatever it is, it'll be fine."

"Later. I promise I'll tell you later."

"Okay. Sounds good." She could feel him glance at her every so often as he paid the bill. They got up to go. "You look great today," he said, breaking the silence as they walked down the busy street. "I like your haircut."

"Thanks! Yeah, I thought it'd be neat to see what it looks like shorter. My dad always liked it long, but…I don't know. Doesn't this make me look more sophisticated?"

"Definitely." The tension eased.

Just for fun, they browsed through a nearby costume store and an antique store. She admired a china doll from the early 1900's with glossy white skin, brown hair, and a red and green Christmas-themed dress. Raoul offered to buy it for her, but she declined. After looking through a music store, they headed back toward his car. His campus car, as he called it, a blue Toyota. He had an expensive red sports car at his parents' house, but the rate of vehicle theft around campus was ridiculous. "So when does you lease end?" he casually asked as they climbed inside. The interior still had the new car smell.

"I guess about six months. Why?"

"Would you want to move in together? No pressure, but I thought I'd ask."

"Oh. Wow." She swallowed. "That's…Are you sure? I'm kind of messy sometimes."

"So am I. I have a housecleaner come by twice a month. No worries."

"So that's why your place always looks so nice! And here I thought you were Mr. Clean."

"The bald dude with the earring?" They laughed.

She hesitated and then asked, "Can I think about it?"

"Sure. Yeah. No hurry at all."

Their last stops were dessert from a bakery and a park with a lake. Ducks swam among the cattails, the babies from spring grown now. A turtle poked its head out of the murky water, and pigeons strutted about nearby, cooing every so often as they searched for stray bread crumbs. Sitting on a bench, she and Raoul were sharing a piece of chocolate pie from a Styrofoam container. She noticed that he was little quiet.

"Everything okay?" she finally asked.

"Yeah. Well…I guess I'm thinking about earlier. I can't help but be a little curious. Sorry." Seeing her expression, he added, "But you don't have to tell me now."

"I guess leaving you hanging was the worst thing to do. Of course you're curious. I'm sorry."

"It's fine. But people get sick sometimes. It wasn't your fault. If anyone thought any less of you over it, then they must have been a jerk."

"I pretty much try to keep it a secret," she replied.

"I understand. It's fine."

Now that she'd begun to tell him, his curiosity was only going to make things worse. The whole situation made her seem even less stable, like she had something to hide. Maybe she could tell him part of it for now. Maybe that would be enough. "All right. I'll tell you."

"Sorry. I didn't meant to push you. You don't have to."

"I want to." She took a deep breath. "Here's the thing. I got…mentally…sick." Christine set her fork in the container, no longer hungry.

"Oh." She nervously checked his expression. He didn't seem too concerned—yet. "Like depression? My mom had that several years back."

"No. This is going to sound really, really bad. But—"

"Go ahead, Christine. It's fine. What happened?" He was staring at her so intently that she knew there was no going back now.

"When I was about fourteen, I started hearing…voices." She cringed as she admitted it. "In my head."

"_Voices?_ Wow. Like you're talking about…disembodied voices?" She nodded. Finally, a touch of caution entered Raoul's blue eyes. "What kind of voices?"

"Different types of voices. Right before I went to sleep or during the middle of the night. I'd wake up hearing them and get really upset. Crying or screaming. Then my dad would come running into my room. And it was just a giant mess."

"That's…really—I mean, that must have been really upsetting." He paused. "What did they say to you?"

"Oh, gosh." She'd tried to block that from her mind. "Things that didn't make much sense. Gibberish. Some were angry and some—I don't know. It didn't even sound like they were speaking directly to me. I can't explain it exactly. I barely remember now."

"Oh. Wow. So were you kind of um…." Poor Raoul was searching for the nicest way to say it.

"Schizophrenic?" she asked with a shrug. "That's what everyone thought at first. The first signs of that. But—well, we finally moved to a different apartment so that my father could be closer while I got inpatient treatment. The second we left, I was suddenly fine. The voices were gone."

"What do they think happened to you?"

"They used a lot of fancy words. But basically like temporary insanity, I guess. A nervous breakdown. No one ever knew exactly."

"Well, you know, maybe that was it," said Raoul, slowly taking her hand. "Weird stuff happens, right? Something in the water at the old apartment? You never know what's in the environment these days."

"Yeah, right." She softly laughed and then dared to meet his eyes, feeling far more vulnerable than she wanted. "So you don't think I'm a freak of nature?"

"No, of course not," he said with a sideways grin. "I mean, if you have any more problems, just make sure to say something. So we can fix it together."

"It _won't_ happen again. That was a long time ago, and I'm definitely fine now."

"Right." He squeezed her hand. It looked like he wanted to ask more questions, but thankfully Raoul stopped himself. She knew he would need time for it to settle in, and that was fine. "Well, thanks for telling me, Christine. I'm really glad you did." He leaned in and gave her a hug from the side. "I love you."

She smiled into his shoulder, relieved. Meg had been right. He didn't see her as the crazy girl. "I love you, too! And I promise I'm fine." A pigeon strutted right at their feet, and they laughed as it pecked at a breadcrumb that was dangerously close to Raoul's sneaker. They shared a gentle kiss as the sun set.

"Your hands are a little cold," he said when they pulled back, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Yeah, they've been like that since this afternoon. And it's still summer. Go figure."

He rubbed her hands with his to warm them up.

And the head tingles from earlier finally disappeared.


	5. Chapter 5

**All righty. Here is the final flashback. And the very beginning of what you're waiting for :) Thank you for all the lovely reviews!**

_1975_

"Do you think everything that priest said was right? About possessions and bargains and all that? Two years ago, I would have called him crazy. But now-"

The Reverend stood beside her beneath the catalpa tree and glanced at the child. Little Erik sat nearby on a patch of brown grass, wearing an oversized black coat and the mask. The baby laughed whenever the wind would blow up against him and ruffle the fuzzy hair on his pale head.

"I don't know," Reverend Mansart finally replied. "He stopped by my house and said I should keep an eye on you. He said this situation was very unsafe and that he'd considered taking the baby with him to Europe. Can you believe that?"

"What? Why?"

The Reverend leaned in toward Irene with a grim expression, as though he were afraid that someone or something might be listening. "Look. I don't know what to believe about all this. So don't-"

"Just say it. We are far, far beyond pretending this is all normal."

The Reverend nodded. "He told me this was the most dangerous situation he'd ever encountered. He said it might be safest to put the child in isolation just to protect everyone else. A cell of some kind. Like a prison or a hospital."

Irene placed a hand over her mouth. "But that's not legal!"

"There are countries that turn blinder eyes. But, Irene, I'm not saying that's the solution to this. Do you want me try to find someone else?" he asked. "There's this fascinating Buddhist monk who—"

"No," she interrupted. "No. People keep coming into my home and not one of them can help. Maybe that old priest was right about one thing. Maybe little Erik is the only one who can help himself."

"That's putting an awful lot of faith into a child."

"I don't have anything left to put faith into," Irene whispered through gritted teeth. "In the past year, I have learned that demons—_Demons!_- are real. Half the time, I expect to wake up to Maddy poking me in the arm and asking me to make pancakes…finding out this was all a bad dream." She stared down at her aging brown leather shoes. "I wish I had a pair of ruby slippers to tap."

"I feel the same as you," the Reverend softly replied. "I've always believed in darker forces, of course, but nothing this-this literal, I guess." He paused and glanced at little Erik again, his hands buried in the pockets of his long coat. "Long ago, I met a man who said he'd interacted with things from the beyond. This kind of situation. He said that it made his faith stronger. He said to me, 'If the darker side exists, then the lighter side must as well. But only the darker side feels that it must prove itself to us.' Useful words in these times, eh?"

Irene rubbed her temples. "If you ever meet the lighter side, tell it to come help me, will you? Tell the lighter side that we've done nothing to deserve this."

"I do every day, Irene. In every prayer. Hang onto your faith."

"I try." Irene stared up at the bare branches of her catalpa tree, recalling the days when she and Maddy would have tea parties and picnics beneath it.

Yet, even then, they had known that something accompanied them during every hour.

The thing continued to stay fairly quiet over the next year, especially as fewer visitors came to the home. There were even weeks when Irene hopefully wondered if _it _had left altogether-until a door would slam shut or a cabinet drawer would open or the pages in her book would rapidly turn. Whether the thing had weakened or was simply biding its time, Irene didn't know.

Erik began to talk. Irene became "Auntie" again. He picked up other words very quickly, faster than any other child she'd encountered. _Ball. Sun. Tree. Mad. Sad. Wind. _Like his cry, his voice was entirely too pleasant. If she had been unable to see him, Irene would have pictured Erik as having cherub-like features.

One day, he became extremely frustrated by something. And this led to the first chilling revelation of many. "Mad," Erik said as they sat on the sofa. Irene was mending one of her skirts, and Erik was supposed to be occupied with a picture book about the zoo.

She glanced at him. "You're mad?"

"No." His poor face curled up into a frown. "_Mad!_"

"Why are you mad, Erik?" she asked with a sigh. "Tired? Hungry?"

"No! I not mad."

Every open door in the house slammed shut at the exact same time. They both jumped as the crash echoed and the home shook on its foundation. As Irene placed a hand to her pounding heart, she understood. She shivered at the implications. Erik had been trying to tell her that the thing was angry. But he had not known what to call _it_.

"Oh," she whispered. "The thing was mad. The thing."

"Thing," Erik repeated as though relieved to have a noun for _it_.

Irene slowly set her sewing on the cushion and turned toward him. "Erik? Can—can you see the thing?"

"No," he said, his attention back on his book.

"Can you hear it?"

"No."

"Then how did you know it was angry?" she desperately asked.

"Doors."

"No. You knew it was angry before it shut the doors, didn't you?"

Erik nodded but would say nothing else. Irene could only assume that he felt _it_ at another level. Now that she knew Erik was aware of his dark companion, Irene began to watch him more closely. There were days when she couldn't tell whether he was babbling to himself or to the thing. Whenever she asked him if he could actually hear it, Erik always shook his head. Yet Irene knew there had to be some type of communication between them.

And then Irene made a grave mistake. The last years had caused her to be constantly tired and frustrated-and downright crazy at points. She didn't always have the patience for dealing with certain situations. Deep in her heart, Irene knew that she had treated Madeleine with far more warmth and affection. But Erik made her feel so trapped at times….

He was nearly two and sitting on the tiles of the kitchen. Irene was shuffling through some paperwork regarding the property taxes on her home. She hoped it wasn't becoming too expensive to live there as she had no idea where they would go. Some awful little apartment? _Yes, I see you allow dogs and cats. But what's your policy concerning dark forces from the underworld? _Sometimes humor was the only thing that got her through the long, terrifying days.

Heavily involved in reading fine print, Irene didn't notice Erik for about five minutes. When she looked away from the documents to give her eyes a rest, she nearly fell over.

Erik was rolling a green rubber ball, about the size of a softball, toward an empty space in the middle of the kitchen. The ball would stop all by itself, as though running into an invisible wall, and then roll back to him. On and on went this eerie game.

"Erik, no!" Irene hollered once she'd recovered from her shock. "Stop! Don't play with it! What's wrong with you?!" She grabbed his hand and dragged him from the kitchen, giving him a quick swat on the upper leg. "_Bad!_" Erik burst into tears.

She immediately realized that she was too harsh- that there was no way for him to understand what he'd done wrong. How was a toddler supposed to ever deal with something like this? Later that night, after she'd put him to bed, Irene wept with guilt because she felt so very unable to love the child. Yes, she felt sorry for him. But with that face and the fact that the thing lingered there only because of Erik—her negative feelings toward the boy were sometimes overwhelming.

_It _learned to prey off this. Whenever she would get angry at Erik, he began to go to _it_ for comfort.

He had just turned three. Stepping outside, Irene began to yell at him for trampling over her flower garden while chasing after his soccer ball. "You crushed my petunias!" she exclaimed, approaching him with a dish towel in hand. "I told you not to go over there. Stay in the middle of the yard! Why are you always so disobedient?!"

"You're mean!" he shouted back at her, his hands curling into fists. Yellow eyes glared at her behind the cloth mask. "The thing isn't mean to me like you! It's nice!"

"It's not nice!" she snapped. "It's bad. It wants to hurt all of us! Don't you dare talk to it!"

"I can if I want! It's my friend! But you're not!" Still scowling at her, Erik ran back into the house, slamming the door behind him. Irene could practically feel the thing grinning victoriously at her; she imagined it had sharp white teeth and evil orange eyes.

Irene tried to be kinder to Erik over the next months, both out of fear and the knowledge that she was taking misguided anger out on her great-nephew. She softened her voice when she scolded Erik, refrained from hitting him, and tried to play mores games. He liked hide-and-seek, but that activity was far too terrifying under the circumstances. There were always three players. They played board games instead; sometimes the pieces would move on their own. Sometimes one just had to pretend that these things weren't really happening.

Despite her best efforts, though, the damage had been done. Erik became much more secretive as he aged, staying in his room for hours or speaking in a whisper to empty space. He refused to give her any information about the thing, only sometimes saying, "It won't hurt you, Auntie. It's my friend."

"It's not your friend!" she would snap, grabbing his shoulder and making him look her in the eye. "It's evil! And the best thing you can do for yourself is to completely ignore it!"

"Stop saying those things," he replied, backing away from her. "You make it mad when you say that. It's my only friend."

That was actually true. As she never took him off the property, Erik really had no other friends. Irene had no idea what she would do when it was time for Erik to go to school. Teach him at home? What about when he turned eighteen and was supposed to enter the real world? What then?

"What about Reverend Mansart?" she frantically asked. "He comes over to see you every week? Isn't he your friend?"

Erik frowned. "He's like _you._ And I am not like anyone…."

And she knew he was referring to both his face and the fact that he was never alone. It was only a month later when Irene truly began to understand the extent of what she was up against. The power that the thing had over Erik became all too apparent.

It was November of 1979. While running around outside after breakfast, Erik had fallen on the concrete and bloodied up his knee. Irene had washed the wound with disinfectant, but the injury was still hurting him the next day. Erik would rub and scratch at the mangled skin even as Irene told him to leave the sore alone.

She was watching the news in the living room, already wrapping her hand tensely up against her collar as she wondered about the fate of the hostages in Iran. For no logical reason, she nearly felt like the events that happened in her home that day were interconnected with what was happening thousands of miles away. As though the thing was watching all of it-plotting and planning and manipulating.

An explosion of glass shattering rang throughout the home. Tossing the novel aside, she jumped up and ran into the kitchen, ignoring the flickering lights. Erik was standing beside a pile of glass fragments and crumbled chocolate chip cookies—cookies she had baked earlier that day for dessert.

"Erik! Why did you do that?" She forgot to control her temper. "My mother gave me that plate over thirty years ago! Why did you do that?!" She grabbed his arm and made him look at her. "What were you thinking? Why didn't you just ask for a damned cookie!?"

"_It_ said to," he quickly explained with wide, frightened eyes. "It said to. Because…because-S_ee?!_" He pointed down to his leg with excitement. "See, Auntie? My leg is better now!"

And Irene watched with horror as the wound on his leg healed all by itself within seconds. The red and blue faded, and the broken skin sewed itself back together.

"Now the pain is gone. And—" Erik reached down and picked up one of the unbroken cookies from the floor. "Some of them are still okay, Auntie. See? The cookies are okay. Everything's okay now!"

She didn't punish him. Irene only slumped down to the kitchen floor and buried her face into her hands. Now she understood the elderly priest's warnings. The thing was quickly learning to manipulate Erik, easily rewarding him for bad deeds. Would it soon punish him for noble acts?

"Auntie?" he asked, still standing beside her and holding up the cookie. "See?"

"Erik. You can't listen to it," she whispered, looking into those two confused yellow eyes. "It's very bad to listen to it. No matter what it promises you, ignore it! Why can't you understand that?"

"Why?" he asked. "It's my friend."

"Because it wants you to do bad things. It's not your friend!"

"But the cookies are okay!" Erik protested.

But, in her mind's eye, Irene could see crumbled cookies and a smashed plate turning into much more horrible activities as time passed. She could see the thing bribing Erik into doing anything. Extreme vandalism. Theft. Violence or even murder. Growing increasingly desperate, she called Reverend Mansart and told him what had happened.

"I'll talk to him," said the Reverend. "But, Irene, maybe this is turning out to be more than you can handle. Maybe I should call for more help. Maybe…maybe Erik should be kept in a safer place."

"Let's just try a little while longer," she whispered, her hand wrapping anxiously into the rubbery phone cord. "Maybe he'll listen to you. Please."

The following day, the Reverend visited Erik in his bedroom while Irene paced outside. She could hear murmuring and the occasional protest from the child. And then she could hear little Erik start to cry. Twenty minutes later, Reverend Mansart emerged, his eyes tired and his steps heavy.

"What'd you tell him?" she softly asked.

"A child's version of the battle between good and evil," he replied with a shrug. "I explained good and bad to him. Right and wrong. Heaven and hell. And how the thing that influences him is wrong. And to listen to you because you're good and right."

"I don't feel so good and right these days." Irene sighed. "Anything else?"

The Reverend hesitated and rubbed the back of his head. "I told him he might have to go away if he didn't listen to you. He got kind of upset."

"Well, maybe it will help," Irene murmured. "Maybe that's what he needed to hear."

"If things get out of hand, call me," he stated. "I don't trust this to get better on its own." He stopped in the doorway before leaving. "But another thing you might try is focusing his attention on something else. Like drawing. Or maybe a musical instrument. You have that dusty piano in the corner. Couldn't hurt."

She nodded thoughtfully. The second Reverend Mansart left and closed the door behind him, Erik came running out with his mask on. "Auntie, I'll be good now!" he said in a tear-choked voice. "I won't listen to the thing anymore! Okay? Okay, Auntie? Don't make me go away!"

"Okay," she whispered. He wrapped his arms around her legs, already tall for his age, and she stiffly patted his head. Over the next couple of days, she almost dared to believe that everything might be okay. He didn't talk to the thing or interact with it. Erik stayed at her side with his books and his games, glancing at Irene every so often as though he wanted reassurance. She would give him pats on the leg and murmur, "Very good, Erik. You're doing very good."

With only a few lessons, he took to the piano faster than anyone she'd seen in her lifetime. A literal prodigy as far as she could tell. Anything she played, he could repeat. And then he'd add to it or embellish it. When she stepped out of the room, he continued to play, nearly obsessed with the instrument. Erik and music ignited a spark of hope in her tired heart.

Yet it was all very short-lived.

A week later, in the early morning hours, Irene awoke to Erik standing at her bedside. His entire body was covered in a burning red rash. All day, he twisted on his bed in agony, futilely attempting to find a more comfortable position against the cool sheets. Irene rubbed a variety of creams and gels on his inflamed skin, but nothing seemed to work. As his moans of pain sounded out from the bedroom, she was standing by the telephone and trying to decide whether to call for the Reverend or a doctor. And wondering if it would even matter either way.

Irene squeezed her eyes shut when she heard something shatter behind her. Even before she turned around, she knew what had happened. And why it had happened. Erik was standing next to a broken vase of flowers, the water dripping off the table and onto the carpet. "I tried," he said through his tears. "I tried, Auntie. But it hurt _so_ much."

The rash faded away before their eyes as the punishment was lifted. The lights flickered in victory. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Again, Irene didn't punish him. She didn't comfort him either. This was far beyond her. Beyond Erik. Beyond anyone. "Erik, go to your room," she whispered.

"But—"

"Go to you room!"

Irene collapsed into an armchair and cried for several minutes. She watched as blue and purple flower petals fell onto the floor like colorful teardrops. The broken glass glistened. Slowly standing, she walked to the phone and picked it up. She half-expected there to be no tone. There was. With a shaking hand, she dialed the Reverend.

"Hello?" His voice was calming. She couldn't get her mouth to work. "Hello? Anyone there?"

"Reverend," she whispered.

"Irene? Is that you?" His voice became extremely alarmed. "What's wrong?"

"I-I can't do it anymore," she said. "I can't win by myself. I can't fight it. And once he gets older and stronger—God help me."

"I know," he replied in a gentle voice. "I'll get you help. It's not safe for you any longer."

She hung up. Even though Irene said nothing to Erik when she visited him at bedtime, he immediately knew he was going away. The little boy begged and pleaded with her to stay.

"It's not your fault," she said. "But you need more help than I can give you. You'll go to people who can help you fight it." _Who will let you suffer with it…. _Irene knew that would likely happen. Maybe the priests would immobilize Erik so that he couldn't obey _it_ no matter what _it _did to him. _Tortura._ What else could anyone do? It was too horrible for words….

"I don't want to go! Please don't make me! I'll be good!"

"I'm sorry," she said with a sob. "I can't help you." She tried to touch his bony shoulder, but Erik backed away from her. "There's nothing I can—"

"Get out of my room!" he screamed at her.

"Erik-"

_"Get out!" _

Irene walked back into the the living room as Erik slammed the door behind her. She sat in the chair and stared forward, trapped within her own decision. She sat there for hours trying to determine her path. Until—

All the lights in the house snapped off at once. Irene glared upwards. "What are you doing?" she asked _it._ "You've won, haven't you? You vile, disgusting, awful devil thing. What do you want now?"

Silence greeted her. With a sigh of defeat, Irene rose to light some candles. She left one burning in the living room and brought one into her bedroom so that she could see enough to change into her nightgown.

A terrible mistake.

The door to her room slammed shut. Irene jumped. The candle blew out with a whoosh, and she was left in complete darkness. With a cry, Irene ran to her door and rattled the knob. It didn't budge. She forced her shoulder against it to no avail. She heard another door squeak open outside. Her heart jumped. "Erik?" she softly asked. "Erik, are you out there?"

No response.

Irene pounded on her door. "Let me out!" she cried. "Erik! Are you out there?" Minutes passed, and she continued to call for him and push against the door.

The scent of smoke suddenly filled her nostrils. "No," she whispered, remembering the other candle. _"No, no, no!"_ Again, Irene threw herself at the wood. "Help me!" she cried as the smell grew stronger. She coughed and gasped. Her eyes watered, and her nose burned and tingled. "Please let me out!"

"Auntie?" Her great-nephew's voice came from right outside the door.

"Erik?" She didn't know whether to be relieved or terrified. "Erik, what happened? Can you let me out?"

"I'm sorry, Auntie. I knocked over the candle. And now there's fire everywhere. I'm sorry." His voice was nothing but apologetic.

"Did the thing tell you to knock over the candle?" she asked, squeezing her eyes shut.

"Yes. It said you wouldn't make me go if I did that."

"Oh, Erik…."

"Auntie, we should go outside now. There's fire and smoke out here."

She coughed and said, "I can't, Erik. I-_It_ won't open my door!"

"Oh…." And then Erik began to speak to _it._ "Let her out," he said. "Let her out of the room. There's fire, and she needs to go outside now."

Silence followed. Gasping, Irene sunk down to her knees where the smoke wasn't as thick. She continued to pound her fists against the door, wondering if these were going to be her last moments.

"Auntie?" Erik's voice was soft and weak.

"Yes?" she whispered, pressing her cheek against the smooth, cool wood.

"It'll let you out if I go now. I have to go with_ it_. I have to go away. And then everyone will be okay. Okay?"

"Erik…."

"Goodbye, Auntie. I have to go now. I have to go with it so it'll let you out. Goodbye."

"_Erik!"_ She desperately rattled the door. "Erik?" There was silence now. "No!" She twisted the knob, and the door suddenly gave way. Crawling on her hands and knees, Irene made her way to the front door. The fire had engulfed her living room, turning her furniture to blackened rubble, and was rapidly approaching her kitchen. Clouds of smoke covered every room. Eyes watery and throat burning, she frantically crawled toward the exit. A pair of strong hands grabbed her beneath the arms and yanked her forward. The cool night air felt like heaven on her perspiring flesh, and she breathed it in and continued to cough. Someone dragged her forward and away from the burning home. Collapsing against the rough grass, Irene finally glanced up and saw the Reverend.

His eyes instantly spoke to her: _We were too late, weren't we?_

As Irene faded into unconsciousness, she could hear the faint sound of approaching sirens.

_Goodbye, Auntie. Goodbye..._

When she awoke at the hospital hours later, Reverend Mansart was sitting at her bedside. "I called Madeleine," he first told her. "She's flying out here as soon as she can."

"Did you see Erik?" she weakly asked him.

"No. I looked nearby. But…no sign of him. I don't think he was in the house."

"What should we do?"

"I alerted the priest. If someone finds him, I'm sure they'll call the police. I'll keep looking with some of the church members.

"No one will find him," Irene whispered, her cheek falling against the cool pillow. "He's gone now. I think he's gone forever, and no one will ever find him."

"Then it's in God's hands," he replied. "That's where it's always been."

Only the catalpa tree still stood.

Her house and belongings were gone. All evidence from the past—_gone. _

Irene had nothing left except-

Madeleine welcomed her with open arms, and they eventually moved down to Florida together. There were no disturbances-no doors slamming…or pages turning…or cabinet drawers opening and closing. There was only peace and normalcy and sunshine and rain. And the occasional hurricane.

After finishing school, Maddy became a legal secretary and fell in love with a bright attorney who quickly did well for himself. They married in 1983 and moved into a three story brick home with a swimming pool and balconies and a fireplace in the master bedroom. Irene lived in a nearby townhome with beautiful new oak furniture and was always welcome to visit her niece. They soon gathered a wide circle of friends in their community. In the decades that followed, it seemed like there was always a wedding or a work party or a retirement party or a baby shower to go to. She would meet with other women at sewing clubs and book clubs.

Keeping busy _helped._

Surrounding herself with people helped. Irene practically forced herself to become an extrovert after spending so many years in near solitude.

Maddy never had children. She told her husband that she was physically unable. Irene never knew whether that was true; she didn't ask.

They never spoke of what had happened.

Until a sunny June day in 2002 when Irene felt a sharp pain in her shoulder. She had been sitting on the beach and reading with Maddy; it was one of their favorite activities to do together as they both grew older. She collapsed onto the soft sand and stared up at the blue sky, the crashing waves echoing in her ears.

As she slouched there with Maddy clutching her hand while they waited for an ambulance, Irene softly asked, "What do you think ever happened to him?"

"I don't know, Auntie…." Maddy choked. "Please hang on. They'll be here soon. I knew we should have taken you to the doctor yesterday!"

"If you ever see him, will you tell him I'm sorry?"

"Why are you saying this now? I'll never see him—"

"_If." _

"Yes," Maddy murmured as tears streamed down her cheeks. "If I do, I'll tell him…."

"Thank you." She smiled. "I love you, dear."

"Oh, Auntie. I love you, too. And I'm sorry, too…."

Irene's eyes closed, and she slipped away into warmth.

* * *

_2014_

_It wasn't the right one!_

None of them were, and he was furious. He had traced the damned thing all the way from some moldy hole in Europe to this foul college town in the United States. He had been so certain! And now…_nothing. _

What was he going to have to do? Search the entire building? It should have been with the rest! Yes, he was very certain of this.

Had _it_ somehow manipulated the situation?

He glared into empty space. That was always a possibility, although he could not see how. Frankly, the thing should have been weakening. Of course, _it_ still had enough power to tear him apart.

Along with the mask, he wore a full black cloak with a hood to cover the sores on his neck and the back of his nearly hairless head. Thanks to the costume racks of the Department of Theatre, no part of his hideous body was left uncovered. The abscesses on the bottom of his feet hurt as he walked.

He tiredly slammed the book closed and pushed it aside on the table. _Useless. _

To his annoyance, he suddenly sensed that someone was standing right outside the room. Another useless student wanting to study, most likely. Time to leave. He could have scared them away, or made them disappear for that matter, but he was not finished with this place and wanted to leave as little evidence as possible of his comings and goings.

To keep himself concealed in the reading room, he had not turned on the light. His night vision was excellent, and the rectangular glass window on the door had allowed in enough light from the main room. Standing to the side, he glanced through the small window. A blonde girl with seashell earrings was on the other side of the door.

Just-_standing_ there with a concerned frown. And making no attempt to come inside. He prepared to hide himself behind the door and then dash out if she entered. Even with his blistered feet, speed and camouflage were easily on his side. But she did not come in. She only stared at the damned door for nearly a minute. One of her index fingers finally reached out and touched the wood. And then dropped again. She tilted her head.

What was she? _Drunk? _It figured. Maybe she would fall over soon and spare him this irritation.

With disgust, he waited until she finally backed away from the door and turned around. She continued to glance back at it until she turned a corner and disappeared. _Finally._

He forgot her and returned to his increasingly futile search.


	6. Chapter 6

Thank you to all who left feedback. Regarding Erik's sad physical state and smell and even voice—it will play into the plot. He's supposed to be mostly pitiable right now. And that's all I'm going to give away ;)

**Enjoy! **

Christine had felt wonderful after her conversation with Raoul as that burden was lifted from her shoulders. Before dropping her off at her apartment, he had again reassured her that the past didn't matter. Standing outside her door, she'd even felt at ease enough to make a joke about the whole thing.

"Thank you for not thinking I'm too crazy to date," she said, kissing him. "And—" Christine gestured to the empty space on her right. "Bob thanks you, too."

Raoul playfully glared. "Tell _Bob_ to stay away from my girlfriend."

"I guess you both have a thing for nutty girls."

"You are not nutty." He gave her a final peck on the lips. "I'll see you this weekend. We're gonna win."

"I can't believe you're making me play doubles with them after what happened last time."

"Heh. They thought it was funny. Only the net was a little traumatized."

"Ugh." She shook her head and teasingly shooed him away. "Have a good night."

"You, too, beautiful. I love you."

"Love you, too."

She sighed happily as she closed the door and turned around to stare at her empty one-bedroom apartment with its tiny kitchen and living space. The smell of burnt popcorn from the previous evening lingered in the air, a testament to all her cooking skills. A worn out grey sofa sat in front of a twenty inch television that she rarely used except for the occasional old romance movie. She'd watched a lot more of them before finding a boyfriend. Two wooden chairs were situated around a circular kitchen table that was barely bigger than a nightstand. She had a few basic kitchen appliances that were also rarely used, a toaster and a waffle iron. Why in the world did Aunt Beth think she'd have any use for a waffle iron? Maybe Raoul would like it….

Maybe it would be nice to live with someone again. She'd long ago become tired of dorm mates and roommates leaving dirty clothes and stale food everywhere and making too much noise and coming home drunk. She remembered her female roommate from the second year of college nearly falling on top of her and saying, "Oh, Christine. You always smell so nice. Like flowers. Can I borrow your perfume so that I can smell nice, too?" After all that, living alone seemed like a good idea, even though Christine could just barely afford it.

But living with Raoul might be great. He definitely wasn't a partier, and his drinking consisted of the occasional beer or glass of wine. They could snuggle up every night for dinner and movies, and she'd be willing to throw in some action flicks for his sake. And, if they were going to get married, then it made sense. Maybe she'd be a little less lonely….

And maybe he'd help her go through the three boxes of her father's things that still sat untouched in the corner of the tiny hallway, right beside the bathroom. She glanced at them as she passed by to get ready for bed. If only the ghosts of the past would evaporate. Her mother's absence. Her craziness. And especially her father dying. It all seemed so sad at times that she couldn't even bring herself to go through the stupid boxes.

The following day, she awoke feeling fairly optimistic, Raoul's reaction still happily lingering in her mind. Christine put on her favorite pair of earrings, blue fan-shaped seashells, and pulled her short hair into a pony tail. She went to her music theory class, which always proved to be challenging. She was expected to do some composing that semester, and it really wasn't her strongest point. Reading and singing music came much more easily to her that writing it.

She had lunch again with Meg at a cheap sandwich shop where the bread was always too dry. Flags, signs, and other decorations with the university's team logo covered the walls.

"Did you tell him?" Meg asked once they'd settled in.

"Yes. Part of it."

"And?"

"He took it well, I think."

"I knew he would!" Her friend grinned. "It happened so long ago. If anyone judges you, then they're an idiot."

She laughed at Meg's bluntness. Christine took a drink of diet soda to relieve her parched mouth. "Yeah, I don't know why I was so nervous about it. Thinking he would break up with me over that? And here I thought that therapist was wrong when she said I might end up having abandonment issues. Haha."

"Why would you have those?" Meg asked. "Because your dad died?"

"That. And-because my mom left."

"But weren't you like three at the time?"

"Yeah. I don't remember anything about her. Except—" Christine thought back and saw red, orange, and yellow. "Leaves."

"Leaves?"

"Yeah." Christine nibbled on her bottom lip. "That's it. I have this memory of her raking leaves in the backyard and me playing in them. She was going to put them into this orange plastic bag that had a pumpkin face. It must have been around Halloween."

"I remember having those bags!"

"Yeah. It's a good memory. I remember her being nice to me, smiling."

"But you're father never told you why she left, right?"

"He just said she was very unhappy." Christine could still see the pained look in his blue eyes and remembered the way he would quickly leave the room whenever her name, Jocelyn, came up. "He wouldn't talk about her much otherwise."

"Well, I can see why! To never write or call you, even on your birthday. To leave your life without a trace." Meg shook her head and frowned. "I don't know. I couldn't imagine doing that to my kid, if I had one."

Christine shrugged. "Well, I don't think about it much. I don't remember her enough to be angry or upset about it. My dad was good to me. He's the one I miss."

"Did you ever search for her just out of curiosity?"

Christine half-smiled. "Yeah…. I've typed her name into Google and Facebook. Nothing. But she could have changed her name."

"Hmm."

They went back to their food, salty slices of lunchmeats on flaky bread. A group of loud boys grabbed the booth behind them, talking about the wild party they were going to that weekend. Christine had been to a handful of parties during her time in college, usually with Meg or a more distant friend. She'd gotten tipsy now and then, enough to fall asleep on Meg's shoulder one New Year's, but that was the extent of her wild college days. She tended to stay to the sides of the room and felt more comfortable with one-on-one conversations.

"So what did you not tell him?" Meg asked.

"Huh?"

"You said you told Raoul part of it."

"Oh. Yeah. I just told him about the voices. I didn't tell him about completely zoning out sometimes. Sleeping walking. The shadows on the walls. And-and the time it felt like the sheet was wrapping around my ankle." That had been the worst; she still wasn't sure if it had been a dream or something weirder.

"I think that's good enough," said Meg. "I never give all my secrets away either." She smiled mischievously. "Keeps us gals mysterious, right?"

"Right," Christine replied with a tired smile. "We have to stay mysterious."

The rest of her day went well enough. She was looking forward to work, an evening shift. It would be quieter, so she could use part of the time to look over her homework. Supervisors were pretty lenient about that at the university.

"Hi, Joe!" She greeted the middle-aged security guard at his desk that night.

"Hello, kiddo!" He smiled behind his beard. "You bring coffee tonight?"

"Nope, I'm afraid not."

"Then what good am I going to be?" he asked, teasing her. "I'll fall asleep."

She laughed. He'd actually done that a couple of time, but she never told anyone. In fact, Christine wouldn't have felt comfortable working that shift without Joe there. He was a burly guy, and she didn't think anyone would want to mess with him, asleep or not.

As Christine arrived at the circulation desk, Alexis was packing up from her shift. "Hey, Christine." The curvy third year English major was Christine's nearly physical opposite, often clad in all black dresses and tops. Her nose was pierced with a gold hoop, and her short hair was also dyed a deep black. Alexis was dating a beefy guy with a goatee, Bill, who rode a motorcycle and always wanted to use the bathroom when he came in. Christine didn't want to know why.

"Hi there!"

"Did you go online and sign that petition I told you about?"

"Oh, no. I'll do that tonight."

"Yeah," said Alexis. "It's really important to stop that development. I mean, all the mountains are going to be covered in houses soon. And the wildlife is getting completely screwed over, right?"

"Right. Yeah. I'll sign it," Christine assured her.

"Great. Hey, did you see the old collection that just came in? I helped Regina unpack it. It was pretty cool."

"Um, she mentioned something about it. I'll definitely have to check it out later," said Christine. In her spare time, she did enjoying browsing through the special collection of books from the 1800's or earlier. Many of the valuable ones were protected beneath glass cases, so that part of the library was like a museum.

"Great. Well, see ya, Christine D."

"Bye, Alexis M.," she replied with a smirk.

The evening began somewhat busy as she assisted several students with book searches. A girl from another desk was having computer problems, and so Christine tried to help with that before finally advising her to call IT. Finally, it quieted. Joe yawned at his desk as he read a newspaper. The evenings would become crazier as midterms and finals approached. For now, though, it was somewhat peaceful. She headed off toward the main section to do some re-shelving.

The main room held a large portion of the nonfiction collection and was up a short flight of carpeted stairs. On all sides of the bigger area were smaller reading rooms for quieter studying. They were kept dark unless in use, part of the university's energy saving policy. As she passed, one of the doors squeaked open. A boy with shaggy blond hair walked out, looking as though he'd been desperately trying to cram for something. "I need a drink," he said as he sauntered past her. She laughed and went back to shelving. And then-

_Head tingles. _

They came upon her so furiously that she stumbled and dropped a book. The thud echoed in the silence. Bending over to pick it up, Christine took a deep breath and tried to ignore them. _Come on. Go away._ She walked forward with the books securely tucked under her arm. They became more intense. She paused and then curiously sauntered backward until she ran into a table edge. Less intense.

Christine took a couple steps forward, and they again became stronger. It was like that game she'd played when she was a kid. Hot and cold. Finally, she was standing in front of a closed door; most of the other doors of the unused rooms were slightly ajar. No light came from beneath this one. One glance at the little window told her that it was definitely dark inside.

And yet she knew someone was in there….

But how did she know? She didn't hear or see anything. _So you don't _know,_ Christine. That would be crazy. _

After several moments of staring at the door, she touched the wood with the tip of her index finger.

_I don't need to open it to know no one is in there. I am not crazy. _

The bells in her head chimed.

She stood there and continued to stare, too frightened to open it. Finally, she forced herself to back away from the door and head downstairs. As Christine cast a few backward glances, the chimes quieted. For the rest of the evening, she was on edge. She stayed at her desk and didn't go back upstairs. When it was time to leave, Christine walked quickly beneath the streetlights to her campus bus, grateful to finally get home that night. And then she chastised herself for being that way.

_You're frightened of a door, Christine? A door? Wow, that's a whole new level of pathetic. _

Her sleep was uneasy. She wished Raoul were with her that night. His warm embrace would have felt divine. But she knew he was really busy with a massive group project.

Thankfully, the following day was shaping up to be her favorite day of the week. She had her one-on-one voice lesson. Next semester, she'd actually be required to begin applying music therapy at a setting of her choice. She thought the nearby children's hospital would be a good low-pressure place to begin. Her other options were a nursing home and a rehabilitation facility. There was also a psychiatric institution, but that would bring back way too many horrible memories.

"Hello, Christine," greeted her voice instructor, Ian Martinez, in his deep and pleasant voice. He had sung in both theater shows and operas, and she felt privileged to still be working with him even though she was no longer a performance major. He had signed a special permission form so that she could register. "Having a good week?"

"I'm…surviving," she said with a laugh.

"Sometimes that's the best you can ask for. What's your major now? I always forget. Nuclear physics?"

"Very funny. It's musical therapy."

"Well, great! I'm glad you're back to music!"

"I am happy to be back," she admitted. "I missed it."

"I think I can get you a recital this year. It's not required, but I thought you'd enjoy it."

She hesitated. "Yeah, maybe. It's a lot of pressure. But—"

"But you deserve it, Christine. Don't be so down on yourself. You're very talented. One of the better students I've had in a while." She blushed.

Ian introduced her to a new piece from _Don Giovanni_, one of Zerlina's arias, and then they began warming up her voice. She enjoyed those times, singing in the privacy of the room without an audience to judge her. Maybe she'd never be a famous performer, but she wanted to make sure that singing was always a major part of her life. And maybe she could even help people with her talent. Christine felt pride as she left that day-finally good at something again. Her self-esteem was sometimes like a yoyo.

And then the evening shift arrived. She set a medium cup of coffee on Joe's desk, Starbucks at that, hoping it would improve her karma. "Now you can't complain," she said.

"Nope. I'll actually do my job tonight! Thanks, Christine." They laughed together.

Gathering her nerves, she headed upstairs to shelve books again. Christine nearly groaned as her head began to tingle once more. _Come on. Give me a break. _

She slowly approached the door that she had the previous night. Nothing happened, and the chimes in her mind didn't change. Christine opened the door with a deep breath and turned on the light, tired of being frightened by nothingness. No one was there. _There. You see how ridiculous you're being? _

She turned off the light and closed the door halfway. But, this time, the mind chimes became stronger as she approached another reading room that was several yards down. It looked the exact same as the previous one. Except the door was completely closed rather than ajar. Christine squinted through the little window but could see nothing but darkness. With a deep breath, she threw the door open and switched on the light. She stepped inside. Her mind chimes rang out.

Nothing. An empty room and empty table met her. Silence. Stillness except in her head.

_Whoosh…._

Cold air rushed against her right cheek. Something black flew at the right corner of her vision. Christine whirled around, her arms up in front of her as though to protect herself. For a split second, she caught sight of something that looked like a hunched over Ghost of Christmas Future. A grim reaper. A black cloaked figure with the hood pulled up.

And the smell. It…He…The figure smelled of damp soil and oldness. And the cold.

Then it was all gone.

_What in the-?_

Placing a hand over her mouth, Christine turned and raced out of the room, not bothering to close the door. After glancing to the sides and seeing nothing, she ran down the stairs, her rapid footsteps causing several other employees to glance up. "Something wrong?" asked Joe as she quickly passed by.

"I—" She swallowed and turned to face him, nearly panting. "No. It was….There was someone-someone up there. I mean-"

"What kind of someone? They bother you?"

"N-no." Christine realized that she was going to sound ridiculous. "They were wearing a cloak. I mean, they were covered in a black cloak and running around. It wasn't really normal."

"Oh. Well, maybe it was a homeless person. Sometimes they stay here. I'll check it out, okay? Probably nothing to worry about."

Still trying to catch her breath, she sat at the desk and waited, wringing her hands together.

Her panic hadn't originated from what the figure did, looked like, or even the way it smelled. This was a college campus; there were always weird people around. One time, she'd seen a couple walking around in a dog and cat costume.

No, the figure scared her because of the feelings that had washed over her while in its presence. Waves of gloom had seemed to emanate from it, of sorrow and death and isolation and anger—and every negative emotion on the spectrum. Its strange energy caused her head to chime madly, and she had sensed it even without seeing or hearing it.

And that made no logical sense. That was insanity.

She heard heavy footsteps. Joe was returning. He glanced at her and shrugged. "Didn't see anything, kiddo. Probably no big deal. A weird student or a vagrant. If it's the latter and you see him again, we can call campus police."

"Thank, Joe."

Her hands were again ice-cold. For the rest of the night, she had a drawn-out case of the willies, even after she was safely tucked beneath warm sheets and covers. Despite her fear, she didn't call Meg or Raoul to tell them. Maybe a part of her doubted what she had seen—and felt. When actually put into words, the whole thing sounded ridiculous.

Tomorrow was Friday, and she had only one more evening shift that would end two hours earlier. She nearly told Regina that she couldn't make it. But, when Christine thought about it all rationally, it made no sense. She quickly played down the event in her mind. Maybe it had been a homeless person or a weird student doing some kind of public art performance. Whoever it was, they couldn't _make_ her head feel things. That kind of thinking would put her back into an institution. Throughout her classes that day, Christine kept reminding herself to get a grip. Especially through the abnormal psychology class….

"Heard you saw someone weird last night," said Alexis when Christine arrived at work. Alexis grabbed an object off her lap and quickly thrust it into her backpack. Then she quickly closed the computer browser. Christine raised an eyebrow, unable to see, but figured it was homework. "One time I found a homeless guy sleeping in the bathroom. I gave him the contact info for a homeless shelter."

"This one ran away before I could do anything like that," said Christine.

"That's creepy. You got pepper spray?"

"Yeah." She sighed and brushed her hair from her face. "Hopefully, I won't run into him again. At least I think it was a him."

Only one more night shift to get through. She would stay at the desk and not even go up there.

In just minutes-

_Head tingles. _

It was getting ridiculous. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore them. _I am not going up there…._

"Hey, can you help me with something?"

A lanky red-headed boy was standing there holding a spiral notebook.

"Um, yeah. How can I help you?" It was hard to focus.

"So I'm looking for this book." He showed her the title. "And I've got the number, but it's not on the shelves. The computer said it was here, though. So—any idea?"

"Um." She swallowed. Because how did she help him without going upstairs? She could tell him she was too busy and to find someone else, but—Ugh. "All right. Let's go take a look."

"Thanks! I looked around for a while." He followed her up the stairs as her head chimed. "You okay?" he asked, probably noticing her expression.

"Yeah. Allergies or something." _Head allergies. _"All right. Let's see." She browsed the shelves. After a minute, she found it lying horizontally across the tops of some other nearby books. Christine rolled her eyes. "There you go. Some people can't put things back, I guess."

"Thanks! I've got to find a couple of others. Then I'll be down to check it out."

"No problem," she murmured. The boy left her all alone in the silence. Christine hugged her arms up against her chest, her heart pounding beneath them. This time, the feeling didn't seem to be emanating from the reading rooms. It was coming from the shelves, from all around her.

She was both repelled by and attracted to it. Because if these sensations were actually tied to something real and tangible-what did that mean? This had never happened. The strange sensations were always random and unlinked to anything. Christine walked through the shelves, into shadows and around corners. Curiosity battled with fear.

Nothing was there. A student was studying at a table. She walked past him to the next rows of shelves. Nothing. _See? You are crazy, Christine. Great. Maybe I'll start hearing voices again, too._

She turned a corner, following the mind chimes like a dog stuck on a leash-desperate to prove to herself that something happening in her mind could not be tied to reality.

The chimes intensified as they had the previous night.

She turned another corner.

Cold air.

The smell.

A hand roughly clamped down on her left shoulder. She jumped into the air. Her mouth fell open, and a choked sound emerged. Before she could shriek, right in her left ear, an eerie and scratchy whisper-

"_How_ do you always manage to know exactly where I am? Do not even think about screaming…." The grip tightened, a clear threat.

Her heart stopped beating and then began to hammer madly. She started to turn her head to see her tormentor. The scent of soil and cold ground and almost—_death_ filled her nostrils.

"No. No. I did not ask you to turn around, did I? I asked you a very specific question. _Answer it_." She stood there gaping at a shelf of books. "Tick tock. The longer you take to answer, the longer I have to decide whether you are some sort of threat to me. What are you, hm?" And then he said something in a foreign tongue. Maybe a Middle Eastern language? When she didn't reply, too horrified to do anything but stand there trembling, he spoke in what nearly sounded like-_Latin?_ Of course, she had no response. "You are nothing," he finally whispered with disgust. "Nothing but a girl. So how do you always know where I am?"

"I d-don't know," she whispered. "A-accident."

"I do not believe in those." A pause. "But perhaps the higher or, more likely, lower powers are on my side tonight. You are employed here, yes? Perhaps you are here because you will be useful to me? Let's see, shall we? I am looking for a book. Leather, black with gold diamond markings on the spine. No title. And _you_ would not be able to read the words. It is very old."

"I don't—"

"Careful. I still have not decided whether you are a threat."

"The old c-c-coll—collec-"

"I looked there!" he snapped. "Yes, it was supposed to have arrived a week ago. _Nothing._"

"Then I don't know. I don't know. Please, p-please…."

"Please, please," the scratchy voice, like dry leaves crackling, mocked her. _"Useless."_ His fingers released her upper shoulder, and his palm gave her lower shoulder a light shove. She nearly ran into the bookcase. "_Please, please_ make it a point not to run into me again, do you understand? You will regret it."

She forced herself to nod and stood there staring ahead of her. Instantly, she sensed he was gone. The gloomy fog of despair and scent of death lifted, and she returned to the real world. With a sob, Christine turned and ran down the stairs and found Joe. He raced upstairs, again saw nothing, and then called the police.

Christine told them her story as well as she could remember it without sounding insane. A cloaked black figure wearing gloves. Had grabbed her and threatened her. And he wanted-a book? They seemed to somewhat believe her at first.

"Probably an unbalanced homeless person," said the handsome officer. "Usually, they're harmless. But once in a while they start harassing people. We'll look into it."

But there was no evidence. Nothing on the security cameras that were stationed at the entrances. Nothing missing or left behind. No other students or employees had seen or heard anything strange. The police departed with a half-hearted promise to follow up.

"Maybe you should take a little time off," said Joe in a kind voice right before Christine left for the night. "Just get a little rest. If there's someone living in here, we'll find 'em. No worries."

And Christine weakly wondered if he thought she was crazy.

Maybe she was. Maybe that fragile fourteen-year-old had never gone away.

She cried all the way home.


	7. Chapter 7

Thank you all! I'm happy you're enjoying this. Yes, it is going to take this E/C a long time to come together, although more direct interaction will start in the next chapter. They already do connect at quite a few levels. So I hope, as always, you enjoy the bumpy ride :)

**Read and Review!**

A bright sunny day with the hints of autumn in the air. Not much of a breeze. Perfect for tennis.

And yet Christine was still curled up in a ball under the covers when Raoul knocked on the front door. She checked the clock. A quarter past nine. With a sigh, she stumbled to the door in a t-shirt and cloud-decorated blue and white pajama pants. Glancing through the peephole, she saw Raoul dressed in a black shirt with the Adidas logo. "Oh, no," she muttered, remembering. Well, maybe she could throw her hair into a pony tail and fake a tennis-loving smile.

She opened the door. Raoul saw right through the smile. "Hey, Christine. Oh, you're not ready yet. Heh. That's fine." A pause. "Are you okay?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"Well, your eyes are kind of red. Are you sick?"

"I—" She sighed and stepped aside so that he could come in. "No, I'm not sick. I don't want to make us late. And I need to get dressed. And—"

"Hey. No big deal. I'll text that we'll be a little late. They live close to the courts, so it's fine." He took out his phone and did so as Christine slowly sat on the sofa, hands resting on her knees and shoulders tense. Raoul came to sit beside her. "So what's going on?"

"This is going to sound completely insane but—" Christine told him the story, leaving out the part about the head tingles. Unfortunately, that made it sound like the cloaked figure had threatened her over nothing but an accidental encounter—which wasn't entirely true. She had been tracking him.

Hadn't she? Or was that crazy? Was she actually acknowledging that something in her mind was related to something in reality? In any case, she didn't want Raoul to think she'd completely lost it.

"And I don't think anyone believes me," she finished, brushing her hair from her face. "Whoever he is, he doesn't leave much evidence behind."

"Yeah, sounds like a nutcase," Raoul replied, his forehead crinkling with concern. "Maybe you shouldn't be working there so late, at least until they catch the guy. The police need to do their damn job."

"Yeah. I don't have to work a later shift next week."

"Good. You're welcome to quit altogether. It'll all work out. No worries."

"No. I don't want to quit. Except for this, I love it there." It _had_ been such a low-stress and peaceful job.

"Okay. Well, keep telling people if you see this guy again. Heck, call me next time, k? I'll beat him up!"

She softly laughed, grateful to get some of this off her chest. Still, Christine was burdened with the fact that she couldn't tell anyone the extent of what was happening.

"So maybe this morning's not the best time for tennis?" he asked with a crooked smile.

"Maybe not," she agreed. "Especially after what happened last time." They'd been playing doubles with the same couple, and Christine was up at the net. A short, high-bouncing ball had landed right beside her feet. Raoul had excitedly told her to "smash it in there." And then, with every bit of her strength and an embarrassingly loud grunt, Christine had slammed the ball right into the net. Her face had turned bright red as everyone burst out laughing.

"Well, I haven't had that many lessons," she'd snapped at her chuckling boyfriend after it'd happened. He'd wiped his smile away and reassured her that it wasn't a big deal. It happened to the best of them.

But it wasn't just her poor performance. Christine supposed the country club atmosphere made her a little uncomfortable after growing up with practically no money. She was always dressed in a baggy shirt and shorts while most of the other women were wearing formfitting tennis dresses. No one was directly mean or rude; it was Christine's problem and not theirs. Still, going to the club this morning wasn't going to improve her cracked confidence.

"Let's stay here and hang out," Raoul suggested. "Or go out for brunch or something? I'll let Neil know we're not coming."

"Was he upset?" she asked as Raoul's phone beeped with a new message. He showed her the screen. Neil had sent him a sad face. "Aw. Gosh. I feel terrible."

"He's just kidding," said Raoul. "Don't worry about it, Christine. I don't want you to be alone here and so upset. Especially when this entire thing isn't your fault."

He took her out to brunch at a nice restaurant with vases of flowers on all the white tablecloths, and she enjoyed a ham and cheese quiche and glass of orange juice. It was the most she'd eaten in the last forty-eight hours. They took a walk around the park, and she started to perk up under the rays of sunshine. The shadows of nighttime seemed distant.

"So how'd you like to come with me to Florida over the winter break?" asked Raoul. "I know you like a white Christmas. But my parents are going down there for this head honcho lawyer's retirement party. He's a friend of my dad's. They've played a lot of golf together."

"That sounds fun," she said. Since her father died, she'd either spent the holidays with Meg or Raoul. Sometimes a distant relative would invite her to their house, but she felt more comfortable with her friend and boyfriend. Meg's mother would even fill a stocking for her with lots of foil wrapped chocolate. "Yeah, I'll plan on it. Maybe I can decorate a palm tree."

"I saw a Santa-painted coconut one time." He walked her to the door. She considered asking him to watch a movie but desired a little alone time. And he probably didn't want to be around her mopey self all day anyway. "So you feeling better?" he asked.

"Yes." She rubbed her forehead. "Maybe I just blew the whole thing out of proportion."

"Call me if it happens again, okay?"

"I will. Love you."

"Love you, too."

She kissed him goodbye and took a deep breath as she closed the door.

With a clearer head and a full stomach, Christine attempted to put it all into perspective and escape her depression. So what was the real truth?

She was certain that the figure was real. She'd seen, heard, smelled, and physically felt him.

But—that sixth sense. How could she rationally explain that? Why would she actually sense him in her mind? Christine badly wanted to write it off as some awful coincidence. Maybe by pure chance her ears were ringing at the exact same time that a belligerent homeless man was walking around the library? Because there were only two other possibilities.

Either both the head tingles and the cloaked man were delusions-in which case she would be officially crazy. She might as well check herself in somewhere.

Or-something unnatural…something supernatural was happening. And that was impossible. She refused to even consider it, focusing on other things instead.

Christine watched _Casablanca _with a bowl of popcorn that wasn't burned_._ She tried to do some theory homework and then gave up. And then she made herself go through one box.

As she broke through the taped cardboard, the scent of the apartment she'd last shared with her father met her, instantly bringing back a billion memories. Going to jazz festivals and cheap concerts with him on warm evenings. Listening to him strum his guitar as she did her homework. Eating his lasagna and picking out the mushrooms.

The box contained a stack of photographs, many with her and even a few of her mother…some of his sports and music trophies from high school…albums of 1960's and 70's bands…biographical books about band members. She even found some of his older recordings from when he'd tried to sell his music.

She would keep these things. Most of the less meaningful belongings like clothing had been given to charity or thrown away. But these items were parts of him. She guessed the other boxes had similar things. Eventually, she'd get through them all.

Christine spent Sunday taking another crack at her homework and straightening up her house. Meg invited her out to coffee in the late afternoon. They talked about school and relationships, and Christine didn't bring up the past week, not wanting to repeat the story. She was tired of thinking about it, of overanalyzing it. Maybe she'd try to forget that the whole thing had ever happened.

Monday was a fabulous day. Her lecture about the psychological effects of music was interesting-how playing an instrument affects language skills and creativity. She already knew from experience that music could bring calmness and lessen her anxiety. Her afternoon shift at the library arrived and was completely peaceful. She helped people and shelved books. Her head didn't tingle. Only Regina made Christine a little uncomfortable when she asked," Everything going well, dear? Heard you had a scare…."

She couldn't detect whether her supervisor thought she was crazy, too. Christine only said, "Yes. Have they found anyone yet?"

"Nope. Nothing yet. But we'll keep watch. It wouldn't be the first time that someone tried to live in the library."

Maybe Regina did believe her.

She was in a wonderful mood by the time her shift was over. Raoul texted her: _Everything going okay?_

_Yep! Great! _

_No shadowy figures that I need to beat up?_

_Not yet. Only a spider in my bathroom that you need to kill :( _

_Hehe. Awesome. Love you!_

_Love you, too! _

Tuesday arrived and began the same way.

But it was the decision to go to a computer lab in the late afternoon that changed everything. Christine had needed to print homework off for a class and went to a station that was several buildings away from the library.

The lab was half-full. Alexis was in there, her face close to a computer screen and a large, open book beside her.

"Hi," said Christine with a friendly wave.

"Oh, hi there." Alexis shifted, crossing and uncrossing her legs. She glanced at the screen and then back at Christine.

"How's it going? Busy?"

"It's good. Yeah. Busy." She seemed to want Christine to go away. With a shrug, Christine strode by her and found an empty computer. She glanced toward Alexis several times, beginning to get a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. After finding her document on a flash drive and pressing the print button, Christine got up to walk to the central printer. She quietly paused behind Alexis and glanced at the screen. Alexis was using some type of translation software, a much more sophisticated program than the free ones on the Internet.

Christine reached out and grabbed the cover of the book. She half-closed it so that she could see the front.

Black.

Leather. No title. And-

Christine bent her neck.

Gold diamonds swirling down the spine.

"Hey!" Alexis exclaimed, startling both Christine and the guy sitting next to her. "Jeez. Nosy much?"

Christine slowly looked up at her, her hand trembling as she set the cover back down on the table. "What is this?" she whispered.

"Just a homework assignment."

Christine stared at her. "Did you take this from the library? Did Regina say you could?"

"How did you even know—All right. You caught me." She put both hands up in the air, palms outward as though in a holdup. "I saw it when Regina and I were first going through them. It was so cool that I wanted to take a look at it. I can't read the writing, but—" Alexis flipped through several pages. "Look at these designs. You can tell it's old occult stuff. I've been trying to translate some of it with this software my professor gave me. Not having much luck yet."

"Regina said you could?"

"Nah. But she won't miss it. You know how spacey she is. I don't think she even saw it when it came."

"So—so you stole it?"

"_No._ Jesus. Chill out. I'll bring it back, Christine. There are a gazillion books. No one's going to miss this one. And if I get into grad school, this may be the kind of stuff I want to research."

"Alexis," she whispered, her hands dropping to her sides. "I think you should take that one back."

"Why? I'll bring it back when I'm finished. I'm not going to be an idiot and spill coffee on it or anything."

"Please," said Christine. "Please just take it back to the library. I won't tell. I promise." She had this horrible vision of Alexis walking around in the dark with it.

And then both Alexis and the book disappearing forever.

"Look. I just want it for another couple of weeks. How did you even know about it, huh? You weren't there when they came. Someone tell on me?"

She ignored the question. "I'll tell Regina."

"Why? What's wrong with you? Everyone's right. You are getting really weird."

"What?"

"Joe told Regina you flipped out. He said you're seeing things upstairs. Are you like clinically paranoid?"

Christine glared slightly. And then pathetically replied, "Well, at least I'm not a thief. " Alexis looked like she was going to come back with a retort. But several people were staring at them now.

"Fine," snapped Alexis. She closed the book and shoved it toward Christine. "You take it back if you're so damned worried. I can't believe you're being such a bitch. See if I ever help you out." Grabbing her backpack, she shut off the computer, took out a CD, and then stormed away.

"But-" Christine stared down at the book with near horror. Her palms were sweaty. "But I don't want it." Alexis was gone, though.

She could have left it there. But then someone else would have picked the book up, finding it interesting for the same reasons that Alexis had. There was something kind of eerie and mysterious about it. And Christine suddenly felt responsible for that stupid book.

Slowly, she picked it up, tucked it beneath her arm, and found an empty classroom. Checking over her shoulders, Christine carefully opened it, the pages yellowed and fragile. The cloaked figure was right; she couldn't read the ornate bold text. Only some of the symbols were recognizable. A crescent moon. A flower.

_What to do? _

Fear and curiosity battled in her heart and mind. She should go to the library and take it upstairs, just leave it resting on a center table. Hopefully, some other student wouldn't grab it.

She felt like she was holding a grenade as she walked to the library, the sun slowly descending. Her head began to lightly chime. _Oh, no._

"Christine? You're not working tonight, right?" asked Joe with concern when she came in.

"No. Just doing some research," she replied, unable to keep a touch of annoyance out of her voice.

"Ah. Good. Hope you're getting some rest."

A girl named Chloe was at the desk. She was a recent hire, kind of quiet, and Christine didn't know her all that well. They nodded at each other.

Christine took a deep breath as she reached the top of the stairs. The tables were full of students studying. Maybe she should go put it near the collection of older books, where no one would pick it up.

With every chime, _he_ came closer and closer. It was no coincidence. And the terrifying answer to whether she was insane or experiencing a supernatural occurrence boiled down to whether the figure was real.

The book seemed extra heavy in her arms. There were fewer students around as she approached the special collections room. An empty table sat in front of her. As the sensations in her head became more intense, Christine placed the book right in the center of it.

With a swallow, she stepped backwards. She could have run away at that moment; maybe that would have been the end of this. Yet a part of her now needed an answer to the question of her sanity. Trembling, Christine walked several yards away from the table and hid behind some shelves that were filled with books. She slipped her phone out of her pocket and flipped it to the camera setting. Holding her breath, she waited as the chimes continued to grow in intensity. Peeking over the tops of books, she had a perfect view of the table.

Once she had him on camera, she'd have her answer. Christine would show everyone the cloaked figure and then they'd feel bad for ever doubting her.

And, if there was nothing in the picture, she'd find a psychiatrist.

Stronger and stronger. Louder and louder. Any moment, he was going to appear and grab the book that she'd so carefully placed out for him in plain view.

Any moment….

"_Waiting for someone?"_ asked a scratchy voice in her ear.

He was right behind her.

Unable to stop herself, Christine screamed and jumped up into the air, dropping her phone on the carpet. And then she gasped, hands up to push him away.

The smell. A whoosh of black. Christine stumbled forward and attempted to run, dashing out from between the shelves. A nearby door opened right in front of her, smacking her squarely in the face and forehead. In a cascade of agony and blurred colors, she fell to her knees on the rough carpet, clutching her skull. The chimes mingled with the pounding of pain. When she opened her eyes, both Joe and Regina were kneeling beside her.

"Christine?" asked Regina.

Christine softly groaned. A female student was standing there, too. "I am so sorry. I heard her screaming and then came running out really fast. I didn't see her."

"It's fine," said Regina. "You don't need to stay, dear." A pause. "Oh-you didn't see anyone else, did you? Another person?"

"Nope," said the girl. "Just her."

Regina nodded. "Thank you."

"Be careful," said Joe as Christine struggled to rise up and glance at the desk. The book was gone now.

"No, no, no," Christine practically whimpered. "He was here! I heard him!"

"It's going to be fine," said Regina, placing a hand on her shoulder.

"Maybe I should call an ambulance," said Joe.

"No," Christine protested. "I'm fine. I just—I know he was here. I know it!" She painfully saw Regina and Joe exchange a concerned glance.

"Is there at least someone who can come get you?" asked Regina.

"Yes," she murmured in defeat. "My boyfriend. Let me—Where's my phone? I…I dropped my phone!"

"Where?" asked Joe. They helped her back up to her feet, and she shakily led them to where she'd been standing. Nothing was on the carpet.

"I know it was here," Christine frantically muttered. "_He_ must have taken it."

"You can call your boyfriend downstairs," gently replied Regina, guiding her by the shoulder. "I'm sure you just misplaced it."

It had been many years since Christine had felt this horrible.

When Raoul came in about twenty minutes later, Regina gently pulled him aside. They spoke in low voices. Raoul seemed frustrated. Christine could hear him say, "Well, are you sure there's no one up there? Maybe she did—"

Regina shrugged and said something about security systems. She patted him on the shoulder and murmured, "Make sure she gets some rest."

Raoul finally approached her with a tired expression. "Babe. Come on. Let's go home."

"Do you still believe me?" Christine softly asked as she climbed into the car, her arms up against her chest.

"Yeah, sure." He shook his head. "So you actually saw him again?"

"I heard him," she replied. She should have stopped talking then. But her head was hurting and she was still panicking. "First in my mind. And then in my ear."

"In your _mind_?" Raoul turned and blinked at her, nearly not stopping at the red light.

"No." She tried to rescue the conversation. "I-I just got startled by something and screamed. It was silly. Maybe it wasn't even him. And then someone hit me with a door. That's all."

"But you weren't working there tonight?"

"No. Studying," she lied.

"Oh."

"My head hurts," she whispered, placing her hands to her temples.

"We'll get you home," he replied, hands tightening on the wheel.

What if the cloaked figure wasn't real?

After all, what made more sense? That she had a psychic connection with a grim reaper that was haunting the library? A dark figure that no one else could see….

Or that it was _all_ in her head?

But she'd known about the book! How had she known that Alexis had stolen that book? The figure had told her it was missing! Had she subconsciously found out some other way and then made up an insane story in her mind? It was possible.

More possible than supernatural chimes that led her to library phantoms….

Still, Christine wasn't ready to tell Raoul that she was getting sick again. She didn't want to see that expression of sympathy on his face as he wondered whether she was going to be worth the effort. Doctor visits. Shrinks. Meds.

No, she wasn't ready to tell him.

No more words were exchanged. She just let him hold her that night.

* * *

He did not recall the exact moment when he'd realized that no one else had a _thing_ attached to them. Most people went about their lives without whispers in their mind. Most people were not enslaved at birth to an invisible entity.

At around the age of nine, as he sat in an orphanage and waited for the thing to tell him where to go next, he had discovered a book on mental illness in children. Perhaps it had been left there by one of the workers. After flipping through it, he had briefly wondered if he was insane.

Yet the woman who had cared for him long ago, Irene, had believed in _it._ Were they both mad?

The psychiatry book had slammed shut on his fingers. No, one could not simply imagine that, could they? More out of experimentation than anything else, he'd attempted to ignore the _thing_ for a week. Again, his body broke out into a terrible rash-until he had cured it by throttling another boy. As the workers at the children's home approached the bloody scene with utter fear on their faces, the thing said it was time to leave.

And he knew for certain that _it_ was real.

That was how the rest of his life had gone. He was not meant to have a home; he was meant to be a wanderer. His only permanent attachment was to the thing.

But his curiosity did not vanish. He knew he was not mentally ill. But what was the thing? And, more importantly, what was he? He had spent many years investigating this.

The literature on possession was quite expansive, both in ancient texts and more modern reports. The symptoms were numerous. Convulsions. Fainting. Speaking in languages. Voice and appearance changes. Lesions. Extreme strength. Sudden knowledge from no visible source. Rage.

Furthermore, every faith had its own types of otherworldly creatures. He'd read through numerous holy texts and scrolls. He had looked into _The Lesser Key of Solomon_ and its listing of demons. And _The Book of Abramelin_, which even referenced using demons to do one's bidding. In the end, though, it had been like trying to apply fairy tales to his reality. Even accounts of possession that existed in more modern literature were suspect, likely the results of actual mental illness. Once in a great while, perhaps five times in his life, he had crossed paths with someone who radiated a certain energy. He had looked into their eyes and seen blackness. Two of them were eerily composed and stoic. Three were almost twitchy, as though ants were crawling all over the skin. Perhaps those were the possessed? He would never know.

In any case, _he_ was not possessed in this sense. The thing was not inside him, forcing him do things against his will. It manipulated, abused, and rewarded him—but it did not directly control. Desperately, he combed through information to find some example of his own situation-and perhaps to discover his eventual fate.

He had only two accounts of which he was certain. Two possible fates at each end of the spectrum.

The first came from his own experience. And was the reason that he had first wondered if that girl in the library, Christine, was something other than human.

Christine was the second person to purposefully make contact with him. Most people either did not notice him, due to the human brain filtering out the unpleasant. Or they fled from him.

The first person to connect with him had no longer been human, not really. He recalled the handsome man's initial words to him. _"I can't kill you, and you can't kill me. So let's not waste any time with that. Besides, Erik, we're precisely on the same side, aren't we? And I'm here to help you, my friend."_

That man represented one possible fate for him. He was dead now, his contract expired.

His other possible fate came through the words of a female but in a much different form. A journal entry from the early 1700's, written by a young woman, Gertrude. Translated, the passage was titled: _The Talking Corpse Chained to the Wall._

Both destinies were horrid.

There had to be a way between them.

Or a way to die quickly instead of watching his body disintegrate over the next forty years.

But, so far, he had found nothing that worked. No exorcism or ritual that he'd performed on himself or paid (or threatened) others to do. The thing was bound to him.

Still, he refused to stop searching.

With the black leather book in hand, he had spent an entire night desperately hunting for new knowledge. Along with the normal literature on possessions, the book did speak of bargains with the underworld. Most concerned people foolishly making deals in exchange for their own souls. But then—

_The act of bargaining one's child or family members away to the darkness is one of the blackest forms of sorcery….No known text of necessary ritual...Would have to be passed on by word-of-mouth…. Unknown as to whether it is even possible._

His lip had turned upward. Well, he could answer that one. Perhaps he should write his own damned book.

And then he had seen what he did not want to see—

_From what little is known, the afflicted individual has no means of destroying this sort of agreement. _

He had slammed the book closed in anger. Another cold dead end? He would examine it more later.

Hours later, hidden away from the sunlight, he closed his yellow eyes as the carefree murmur of students and faculty surrounded him. His whole body ached, and the cracks in his hands burned. He could not even play the violin without agony. He was nearly stooped over when he walked. His once beautiful voice was an ugly shadow of itself.

The thing fed a thought into his mind—_Why do you do this to yourself, Erik? It could be so simple…._

Another nearby voice drowned _it_ out. A familiar voice. He glanced up from his shadowy corner. "Everyone thinks I'm nuts. I'm going to get fired if Alexis says that I stole that stupid book! Raoul's really worried about me. God, I'm a wreck."

"Aw. Christine. I'm sure it'll work out. It's so stupid that no one believes you. I'm sure if it was a guy saying this stuff, they'd believe him. Do you want to go to the Dean of Students or something?"

"I don't want to make this worse than it already is. And—to be honest, I'm starting to wonder if they're right. Maybe…maybe I am seeing things."

"Oh, gosh. Is there anything I can do?"

"No, Meg. I don't think so. I'm just going to get through the day. And think about it all later." A pause.

"Is something wrong?"

"No. Just my head—"

"A headache?"

"Something like that." A sigh. "I guess I'd better get to my lesson. At least that'll put me in a better mood. It's the only thing I have to look forward to these days…."

"Good luck! I'll call you tonight. And you call me if you need anything."

"Thanks."

From behind a concrete wall, he glanced at her. Small and frail with tear-stained cheeks and messy hair. He sensed no wrongness or darkness or really anything extraordinary about her, outside of the fact that she'd pursued him. He'd looked her up in the university computer system and searched through her phone. So far, Christine Daae was proving to be incredibly dull.

And perhaps not too bright. Trying to take his picture? Did she really think him that unaware of his surroundings?

Perhaps she did. She knew nothing of him. And now he knew her address, phone number, class schedule, grades, and salary. Far more than he wanted.

Yet he had also learned of her musical talent, the one part of her that interested him. And it was no coincidence that he was there that day. He had nothing better to do except decay beneath the ground. Eventually, he would journey onto his next quest. He would have to move quickly, before he was physically unable to do so.

But this made for a short break. And he was still somewhat suspicious of the second person in his lifetime to ever have a keen awareness of him.

He followed her until she went behind a door. They were separated until the door cracked open without him touching it, as though _it_ wanted him to hear what was occurring on the other side.

"How are you today?" asked a man.

"I've been better," she replied. "It's been an awful week so far. But I'm looking forward to this."

"Well, good. Music makes everything better, right?"

"Yep! That's why I'm going into musical therapy." Papers were shuffled.

"Something wrong?" the man asked. "You keep rubbing your head. Need an aspirin?"

"No. I'm just fine. _Nothing_ is going to ruin this for me today."

The man chuckled at the anger in her soft tone. _His_ own dry lip turned up slightly. A piano played. She began her warm-ups and then she sang.

She _sang. _

He did not move throughout the entire lesson. He did not even move as she left the room. Her papers blew from her hands and landed behind her in the hallway. With a sigh, Christine turned around to bend down and collect them, giving him another glimpse of her face. Her little nose was scrunched up in irritation. Her blonde hair delicately framed soft cheeks.

He should have left at that very instant.

He should have gone thousands of miles away and chained himself to a wall beneath the ground.

He should have saved her from himself.

But beneath his hideous body and cold, calculating mind…beneath the evil that always accompanied him—there was some semblance of a human being. Of a man.

And men are weak.


	8. Chapter 8

Here we go. A bit different than the normal initial power structure between them. But I promise it'll go somewhere….

**Read and Review!**

The chimes became far less predictable.

Christine heard them during her next vocal lesson. Strong and unrelenting, pulsing more quickly than usual. It wasn't enough to distract her and, by concentrating on her voice, she could drown them out. Still, the incident pointed to a further disintegration of her sanity.

At Regina's insistence, Christine took off work for the rest of the week. At first, she was happy to avoid the library and all its strangeness. But location no longer mattered. Even after her vocal lesson, the bells continued to ring. On Thursday and Friday, she would hear them as she walked to her later classes and to the bus stop, the days becoming shorter and darker. Sometimes it sounded like they came from beneath her feet. Or from behind corners. Or from above. She said nothing about them to Raoul or to Meg when she came over for chick flicks on Friday night. What good would it do?

As far as the library ghost went—she was still convincing herself that he wasn't real either. The chimes could no longer be tied to him if she heard the sounds outside the library, right?

Not unless he was following her—which was too ridiculous to imagine.

The chimes disappeared on Saturday, and she spent much of the rainy day indoors. She and Raoul went out to dinner at an Italian restaurant, and Christine was alarmed by the concern in his eyes. "Everything going okay?" he immediately asked.

"Yes," she replied. "I've been fine. Holding it together."

He took her hand across the table and squeezed. A candle in a glass holder warmly danced between them as the lights dimmed. "Let me know if you ever want me to come over. Anything. Just be honest about what you need."

"I'll be fine. I…If it doesn't get better soon, I'll see someone. But I don't want to be your burden. That's not what this relationship is going to be like. Ms. Crazy and Mr. Stable."

He looked a little hurt. "I never meant it like that. I care about you. A lot."

She leaned over and kissed his cheek. "I know. I'm sorry. It's just that I've worked so, so hard to be independent. My dad freaked out and became really overprotective. And I don't want that to happen again."

Raoul nodded. "I get it. But you'll let me know if I can help, right? And not keep things from me?"

"Yeah. Of course. I'll be okay."

Still, Christine knew that she wasn't going to tell him everything. At least not until she figured it out.

_At least I know I'm crazy. I'm not one of those people wearing foil on my head and waiting for the mother ship to contact me. _

She had a mid-afternoon shift at work on Monday. It'd rained all day, and a moistness in the air mingled with the scent of old books to create a heavy odor. Alexis was just packing up as she arrived. They exchanged a brief and frigid glance. Christine's heart jumped as Regina approached her. "How are you feeling, dear?"

"Fine, thanks," Christine replied. "I'm really sorry about last week."

"Oh, don't be. I made Joe look around. But we didn't find anything, I'm afraid."

Christine took a breath and looked her supervisor in the eye. "You know, it probably was my imagination. Maybe I'm studying too hard."

This comment seemed to make her supervisor relax slightly. Regina smiled and squeezed Christine's shoulder. "Well, you take all the time off you need. Mental health is so important. Are you taking a meditation class?"

"Not right now."

"Well, you should be. Everyone should in this sort of world with all the cell phones and e-mail and nonstop nonsense."

"I might do that," Christine replied. Regina left, and no one mentioned the black book. Maybe Alexis was afraid she'd be the one to get in trouble over it.

Finally, Christine was alone at the desk. Few students were around that day, probably extending their weekend by an extra day. Thunder rumbled overhead.

_Chime, chime, chime. _

Christine squeezed her eyes closed. If she wanted to keep her life-her job and degree and fantastic boyfriend-she was going to have to ignore her crazy mind. Or find private and professional help. But if she kept raving like a lunatic to Raoul, Meg, Regina, and Joe-well, then they would treat her like a lunatic.

_Chime, chime, chime. _

_Okay, Christine. Breathe. In and out. In and out. Ignore them. They're only in your mind._

Head held high, Christine soon went upstairs to shelve a basket of books. She forced herself not to purposefully walk toward or away from the sounds. She would not let them control her any longer.

And then she heard another noise. Poor quality classical music. The beginning of _Eine kleine Nachtmusik_.

A guy reading at one of the tables glanced toward the sound with annoyance, and Christine knew she wasn't imagining it. She quickly followed the noise, walking in between the shelves as her heart began to pound.

The sound was a phone ringtone.

Her phone's ringtone. Its _new_ ringtone, anyway. Her old one had been a 90's ballad. The cell phone had been placed in an empty spot on one of the metal shelves, right beside a biography of Mozart.

She shakily picked it up. The background had also been changed. Instead of a solid blue, now black notes cascaded up and down the white screen. The phone stopped ringing before she could answer. Her trembling fingers checked for the incoming number. It was blocked.

Christine swallowed. Well, it was a good thing she'd waited to buy a new phone, right? Concerned, Raoul had given her a prepaid phone for the weekend, and she'd promised to find a new one by the end of that week. But the company was supposed to have canceled her service on the lost phone. Obviously, they hadn't. Was good karma finally here?

And yet Christine couldn't shake a nervous feeling that someone had wanted her to find the phone at that exact moment. As she stepped out from between the shelves, she glanced around. Nothing was out of place. No one was watching her.

Light chimes lingered in her mind. She quickly finished shelving the books, probably shoving some of them in the wrong spot, and then ran back downstairs. She remained there the rest of her shift. Joe came in and asked, "How you doing, kiddo?"

She curtly replied, "Just fine."

When her shift ended, Christine wasn't ready to go sit in her empty and lonely apartment. Instead, she walked to a nearby building with a comfortable room for studying. It had plushy couches and armchairs and polished tables. The College of Business was clearly well-funded. To her disappointment, the room was nearly empty, only two other students present. The girl soon got up to leave with a yawn. Then it was only Christine and a guy who was sitting in one of the armchairs and flipping through a pile of papers.

Christine took a seat at a table and stared down at her homework. _Choose a key. Time signature. Chord progression. Melody. Tempo._ At least the piece wasn't due until the end of the semester. Maybe she could procrastinate a little longer. She looked at the assignments that were due sooner. _Transpose the given melodies….Notate the indicated modes…._

She knew these things, and yet the last weeks had stolen her concentration away. Words, notes, and measures blended together. _Chime, chime, chime._

"Aw, man." The guy in the chair then muttered an obscenity. Christine could see why. A strong gust of air from somewhere—the vent?—had sent his papers scattering all over the carpet. With a sigh, he bent down to pick them up. He glanced at her and shook his head. "Guess that's a sign it's time to go."

She softly laughed and then nervously watched as he left her there alone. In the distance, a professor was giving a lecture. Otherwise there was silence.

_Chime, chime, chime. _

Christine rubbed her temples and squeezed her eyes shut. _It's in your head, Christine. It's just in your head. _

Yet she couldn't stop herself from whispering in the tense silence, "Who's there?"

There was no reply. She started to look back at her homework. And then the scratchy voice said, "You know the answer to that. You can sense me. _Always._ Even when you cannot see or hear me. Why is this?"

Placing a hand to her heart, she jumped up and whirled around. She saw no one. "Oh, God," Christine murmured. _It was happening again!_ Only this time the voice in her head was speaking directly to her.

"I will not harm you," the raspy voice continued. "But why do you sense me? How?"

"No, no." She rapidly shook her head back and forth. "This isn't real. It can't be!"

"Yet it is-Christine." Her name was said in a strange way, like someone trying to speak a foreign word for the first time. "Neither of us can deny this now."

"Stop," she groaned. "Please stop!" Christine grabbed the strap of her backpack and ran out the glass doors. To the bus stop where she anxiously waited for ten minutes, pacing and checking over her shoulder every so often. As though that would stop the thing in her head from grabbing her. The chimes ceased once she was on the bus, yet she still hugged her arms against her chest throughout the bumpy, exhaust-scented ride. Thankfully, few people were around to witness her acting crazily.

Once off the bus, Christine ran all the way home, her flat sandals pounding against the pavement and sending painful vibrations through her feet and legs. Throwing the door to her apartment open, she realized that she'd left half of her homework on the table in the study room. It didn't matter; she'd hardly done any of it. An _Incomplete_ was the least of her worries.

She jumped into bed and threw the covers over her head. As the sun set and the room darkened, Christine stayed there until she fell into a very uneasy sleep, not bothering to undress or brush her teeth. The following morning, she immediately called her insurance company to find out which nearby therapists they would cover. She made an afternoon appointment with a woman for that Friday. This was not something she could fight by herself or simply ignore. The past had returned. She was sick again.

Christine shakily took a shower, searching for the pieces of normalcy that were always taken for granted. Did she dare leave the house? Did she call Raoul and tell him the extent of her illness? She was supposed to work that day. Since her craziness was no longer contained to the library, specifically avoiding the building didn't make any sense. And she had her voice lesson tomorrow; she couldn't miss that. And telling Raoul would just make him worry even more. She didn't call her boyfriend. She went to work.

Christine prepared for anything once she stepped out into the sunshine, the humidity making her bangs stick to her forehead. Voices. Shadows. _If it doesn't seem real, then it's probably not real. _

Work began normally. Then the chimes began, and she desperately ignored them.

But, once again, it was impossible to ignore her phone.

While she was upstairs helping a student, a text arrived. She pulled out her buzzing phone and glanced at the message. _The table on the far right. _From a blocked number.

Her stomach flip-flopped. "Do you have everything you need?" she shakily asked the boy she'd been assisting.

"Yeah. Thanks!" He waved and walked off.

What else was she going to do but look? Christine made her way over there, past several tables of chattering students. Already, she could see several white pages on the tabletop. Her heart jumped when she looked down. Her homework. And it was now all complete.

Kind of. The handwriting was so terrible that she could barely read it. But, if she squinted, Christine could make out notes, sharps, rests, and other musical symbols.

There was also a smaller piece of yellow notebook paper with a scribbled note. At first, she was confused by the instructions, but then Christine realized it was related to her singing—breathing techniques, relaxing her tongue, keeping her larynx steady….

"What in the-?" The papers rattled because her hands were shaking.

Nearly running back downstairs, Christine found Regina at her computer. Her hair was up in a purple scarf, and she was wearing earrings in the shape of hippo heads. She smiled, utterly relaxed as Christine tried not to panic. "Yes, dear? What's wrong?"

"Can you see this?" she whispered, thrusting out the cell phone.

"Oh, you found your phone! Upstairs? That's wonderful!"

"This message," Christine continued, keeping her voice steady. "Can you see it?"

"The table on the far right," Regina read. She glanced up over her glasses. "What about it, dear?

"And this?" Christine eagerly said, holding up her homework.

"What? No, I can't read music all too well. And I certainly can't read that handwriting. My goodness, Christine. Your penmanship is almost as bad as some of the faculty's." She softly laughed. "Is there something you need?"

"No," Christine murmured. "No. I'm…fine. Just fine."

But she felt dizzy. Because _this_ was all real. She hadn't sent a text to herself or completed her homework. What was happening? She spent most of the afternoon and evening staring at that message and her homework, trying to make sense of it.

The chimes arrived when she went to her voice lesson the following day. Mostly out of experimentation, Christine obeyed the instructions in the note to the best of her ability.

"Wow. Have you been practicing?" asked Ian. "I don't think I've ever heard you better than this. Amazing. I might find something a little more advanced for next time. But don't wear your voice out."

After that, Christine turned the completed homework in without a word. She wasn't afraid of failing the assignment. The truth had finally become far more important than fear.

Maybe she'd end up going to her appointment. Maybe she'd end up calling the police. In any case, it was time to find the end to this nightmarish maze.

Halfway into her shift, as the chimes rang in her head, she very deliberately went upstairs. Randomly choosing a reading room, Christine went inside and turned on the light. She left the door halfway open. She sat at an empty table and folded her trembling hands together on top of it. And waited. And waited. Only her pounding heart betrayed her calm demeanor. She breathed in and out as though doing one of her meditation exercises.

If he was real, then he was nearby. Neither spoke a word. A part of her still wanted to run away. Yet then this cycle would never end. She would spend the rest of her life questioning her sanity.

"Who's there?" she asked.

No answer.

"What do you want?" she asked.

A pause. And then that rough voice- "I told you this. I want to know why you can sense me."

She swallowed and willed herself to stay put. "I don't know. I don't even know if you're real."

"Why? Does not all evidence point to the fact that I am?

"Because no one else ever sees you," she replied, staring at the table. "Only me."

"Ah. Well, perhaps it is better if I am not real? More reassuring for you?"

"No. Then that would make me insane." She looked around. Having a conversation with a disembodied voice wasn't helping her case for sanity. What if she were talking to herself right now? "Where are you?"

"My physical presence is highly revolting."

"Well, I really don't like having voices in my head." She clasped her hands together and squeezed her fingers into her palm. Her nails made red crescent moon imprints into her skin. "Maybe I am just crazy," she whispered to herself.

A soft, scratchy chuckle. "Fine, fine. Let us settle this ridiculousness. Step out of this room. I will show you that Christine Daae is no more insane than the rest of us!"

She slowly stood and obeyed the voice, walking just outside the room. She nervously waited for a cloaked shadow to pop up in front of her. Maybe she'd scream. Maybe not.

"Do you see that group of females on your right?" he asked in her ear.

She shivered and looked. Five girls, probably freshmen or sophomores, were softly giggling around an end table in a very unsuccessful study session. "Yes," she replied. "I see them."

"Watch," he whispered. "This will be amusing."

About a minute passed. Christine nearly left, continuing to question her own sanity. But then, in the blink of an eye, a black cloaked figure was silently kneeling amongst them at the table. She gasped. It took the girls about five seconds to realize they had company. One brunette glanced up at him, her grin collapsing into an "o" of fear and surprise. With squeals, the girls jumped up and ran away from the table. "Oh my God! Oh my God!" It would have been very funny under other circumstances.

The cloaked figure had disappeared by the time the girls turned back around. Laughing and muttering nervously, they slowly returned to collect their purses and backpacks. Christine could hear them chattering. "Where'd he go? Was that some stupid hidden camera thing?"

"We were study-bombed!"

"What?"

"Instead of photo-bombed, we were study-bombed."

"Nikki, that is like the lamest thing I've ever heard. It was probably a weirdo art student."

"Did you smell something?"

"People are so annoying here. They probably don't shower. I miss high school."

They walked off together, tossing their long hair indignantly.

Christine watched all of it with her mouth half-open.

"You see?" _he_ said into her ear, causing her to shudder once again. "They see me if I permit it. Only _you_ are the exception to this. You know when I am near, whether I wish it or not. Why?"

She stepped backwards and into the plaster wall. No one else was nearby. No one would be able to help her. "You're real," she whispered.

"Is not that what you wanted? Proof of your sanity?"

"I don't know. That means you can-Who are you? What do you want?"

"I have answered that question."

She rapidly shook her head. "I told you that I don't know why I can hear you! But maybe-maybe you should leave me alone. Ever since you came, things have been…they've been _terrible_."

She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples, trying to gather herself together. When she opened her lids and looked up, _he_ was sitting at the table in the reading room. Christine started, fully taking him in for the first time. A black cloak flowed from head to toe. A black mask covered his face and fully turned him into a shadow, save for a flicker of yellow that was occasionally visible beneath the drooping hood. His gloved hands seemed long and bony, and the material of the cloak had little support. She guessed he was very, very thin. It was difficult to discern his height; he was somewhat hunched over. The smell of damp soil returned, unpleasant but bearable. A gloom settled over the room.

"Who are you?" she asked, beginning to wonder if this was Death personified. "Are you homeless?"

"More or less."

"Well, there-there are better places to stay than a library," she stuttered. "I can give you the address for a shelter. Would you like that…_Sir?_"

"No. I will decline." His tone was amused.

"Then that's all I can do for you," she said. "You have your book. I won't tell anyone about that. Please. Go. You can't stay here. Or I'll-"

"Inform everyone that there is a monster in the library? That will do wonders for your reputation."

"Those girls you just—"

"Are gone now and believe me to be an inane performance artist. The best of luck in finding them and convincing them otherwise."

"I'll do what I can. You can't stay here." She started to turn, afraid that he would stop her from leaving.

"Wait," was all he said. A soft groan followed. Christine whirled back around. He had sunk down to one knee beside the chair as though it had pained him to get up. The hood of the cloak was skewed slightly, and she caught a brief flash of his neck and the side of his head.

She couldn't stop the soft gasp that escaped her lips. Finally, Christine understood why he covered himself. Red and purple lesions covered his pale skin. His lacerated head was completely bald. He was not a performance artist or an eccentric. He was very scarred and possibly ill. The knowledge brought upon simultaneous feelings of sympathy and squeamishness.

For the first time, she saw him as pitiable instead of frightening. Homeless. Ill and in pain. Covered in sores. And yet he didn't seem disoriented like the bearded men who slept at the bus stop and smelled of sweat and alcohol. He was very well-spoken and lucid. _It was all so strange…._

Christine took a deep breath and softly asked, "Do you need help? Should I call someone?"

"No. Leave me now. You obviously have no answer to my question." His tone was colder. He quickly readjusted his hood and stood up straight, turning from her.

"There are better places for you to be living than a library. Shelters. Hospitals. Someone can help you. I can look something up for you."

"I said to leave me!" he hoarsely snapped.

She held her hands up in surrender and started to turn around. This was too much. Yet, pausing in the doorway, Christine couldn't stop herself from asking a final set of questions. "Can-can you hear me? In your head? Is it the same for you?"

"No," he replied. "But-I heard you sing. And that is enough."

She started to accuse him of following her. Yet, even though he was obviously in pain, the man walked toward her quickly. She pressed herself back into the wall as he reached the entrance to the room. Yellow lights gleamed from beneath the hood. The smell was strong, and Christine held her breath, terrified. He only stared into her eyes for a moment longer, floated past her, and finally disappeared.

The chimes faded, and she was alone. Yet everything had changed.

After sitting at work in a daze for the next three hours, she called and canceled her Friday appointment.

She didn't call the police.

_I can sense the presence of a very decrepit homeless man who seems to have musical talent._ _I think he's following me to my voice lessons. But I can't see him there. I just hear him in my head._

Yeah, right.

And why did she hear him? Was it scientific or supernatural? Did it have to do with music? Or was it because he was sick or dying?

Now Christine knew she wasn't crazy.

Yet that was all she knew.

Now what?

* * *

Nothing could come of this.

_Nothing. _

With this knowledge, he stayed away from her for several days. He lay in his coffin, staring at the concrete ceiling with all its ugly cracks and grooves. The thing swam in and out of his head and body with new energy, forming more gashes and cuts on his arms and legs-feeding off his doubts and agony.

When Wednesday arrived, he could not stop himself from returning to the surface to hear her sing. His dry lips twitched upwards as he listened; she was clearly following his instructions regarding her voice. And she would only become better with time. And he knew, by the way she glanced over her shoulders, that Christine was very aware of his presence. She shook her head but said nothing. And it was as though she silently gave him permission to breathe.

And the thing knew how much this meant to him. The lights flickered during the lesson. Her vocal instructor muttered something about the building getting too old and why didn't the university invest more in the fine arts?

When the lesson was over, she walked toward a darker corner. She stood there with her arms folded, waiting with a frightened gleam in her blue eyes. "Why are you here?" she asked. "I told you I don't know why I can hear you!"

"I believe you," he softly replied. He tried to find some semblance of his old voice when speaking to her. There was little of it left.

"Then why are you here?"

"To hear _you_."

"_Why?"_

He told her the truth. "It is the only peace of mind I have. I will cease speaking to you. Cease all communication, if you would prefer. But I will listen to you. You cannot deny me this."

"I could quit singing," she softly countered.

"You will not," he replied. "You need music as I do."

She glanced around the empty space. "Where are you?"

"You will not see me again. My appearance and smell understandably repulse you."

She looked down and frowned. "No, it—I…I…" Christine paused and hesitantly asked, "You're very sick, aren't you?"

"Yes." Not a lie.

"With what?"

"You would not be familiar with the condition." Also not a lie.

"Are you…are you dying?"

"Yes." Not quite a lie; it would simply take forty long years before his heart ceased to beat. He told the half-truth to lessen her fear. Let her pity him so long as he could listen to her.

She tilted her head to the side. "I'm sorry. But maybe that's why I can—" She sighed. "I wish you'd go to a hospital."

"They cannot help. And I will not haunt you forever," he reassured them both. _Because nothing could come of this._ "My time is short in more ways than one. I am merely a shadow passing through. Who wishes to hear a brief piece of heaven before descending back into hell. Would you deny this to a dying man?"

He left her there before she could respond. But she would keep singing. And she would allow him to listen for three reasons.

First, he would continue to assist her with her music. This was simple. And the only gift he had to give.

Secondly, she pitied his pathetic physical state. He did not want this. But—it did have the effect of making him less threatening to her.

Finally, she was curious about her odd ability. In later months, he would blame the _thing _for dulling his own inquisitiveness about this. But perhaps it was only he, Erik, who resisted the possibility that he might be enormously dangerous to her. He suppressed these thoughts. Because he did not want to leave her. Not yet. He had to hear her. _Again and again and again._ Selfishness and desperation clouded his judgment.

"_She's delightful, isn't she, Erik?" _The foreign thought slithered into his mind. _"And yet the mere scent of you disgusts her."_

"Leave me," he hissed.

This could go nowhere. But he told himself that he had earned this bit of comfort. He deserved to hear her and be near her for a while longer. Because, barring a miracle discovery, he knew what fate he was inevitably approaching—

_1734, the 5__th__ of September_

_….The coach had collapsed in the mud, and we were far from help. One of the horses broke a leg, and Anton was forced to kill the poor beast….I did not want to leave our belongings where thieves might find them, but Anton assured me they would be fine. We walked for at least four hours in the miserable heat and finally came upon a small cottage. The little brown house was deep in the forest and in a terrible state of decay. Weeds and shrubbery covered the walls and roof. A horrible stench filled the air, as though an animal had died. I wanted desperately to leave. Obviously, the home had been long abandoned. _

_Being the terribly curious man that he is, Anton went inside and I followed so as not to be alone. The smell of death became much worse. Despair hung over us like a thick, grey fog. Cobwebs covered every inch of the home, and rats scampered across the dirt floor. I again begged Anton to leave, but he wanted to explore….We entered a nearly empty room. The door slammed shut behind us, giving me a great fright. There was only one small, dusty window for light._

_It was in here that we came upon a decomposing corpse that was chained to the back wall by the arms, legs, and waist! He had neither hands nor feet for they had rotted away. He had no nose, and only large black holes for eyes. His tattered shirt and trousers hung from greenish skin stretched over protruding bones. Surely he was long dead!_

_But then-the corpse twitched and stared up at us with its empty eyes! What horror! I screamed and tried to run away, pounding on the locked door. It would not budge. Once poor Anton had overcome his terror, he kindly asked the corpse whether he might need assistance. The corpse, with his toothless mouth, rasped that he most certainly did not need help. He was merely waiting there to die. The corpse then ordered us to leave as a servant of the Devil was also in that house and would take our souls if we did not go! The corpse explained that he must remain chained to the wall to finally kill the Devil's servant. He commanded Anton to give him no food or water so as not to prolong his miserable life. He screamed and sobbed at us to leave. By a miracle of God, Anton found an ax and chopped through the door. We ran until we could run no more. _

_Whomever or whatever that poor soul was, I can only hope he has found peace with the Lord by now. I do believe a demon was also in that house. I felt an unspeakable evil in my bones. The memory still sends a chill through me, and I sometimes see that talking corpse in my nightmares. Anton will not speak of it. Still, I felt the need to preserve this memory. _

_Perhaps it will help another. _

_Gertrude_


	9. Chapter 9

Thanks to all who left feedback and favorited! These next couple of chapters will be shorter and sweeter. And then we'll start approaching the halfway climax.

**Read and Review!**

Did she tell anyone else?

_No._

At least, not yet. Not until she could prove anything. Or unless she felt threatened enough to run away. No one would believe her. Or, especially in Raoul's case, they would become overly concerned. Raoul would want to get the police involved, and the authorities would think this was all a giant joke.

Christine wanted calm and time to think things through. While the homeless shadow man's interest in her was disturbing, this whole thing had started because of her weird ability. If she hadn't sensed him and followed him around the library, he never would have noticed her. They were now intertwined for more than one reason, and she desperately wanted answers.

Over the next week, she only heard the chimes during her vocal lessons. The bells in her head seemed to change in pitch and volume with her voice, rising and falling together and creating an eerie harmony. Afterwards, she'd spoken to _him _and demanded to know why he was following her. The man was dying and wanted to hear her sing. She'd had no response to that.

So Christine spent her free time researching supernatural connections on the Internet. Tons of people claimed that they could speak with the dead and help others reach their deceased loves ones. Some said they could read minds or predict the future by using palm readings or tarot cards. There were also a few anecdotes of people having psychic connections with friends or lovers—intense dreams of them and strong sensitivity to their feelings. Still, Christine couldn't find another account of what was happening to her. Sensing someone she had never met before? Hearing them in the form of chimes? Still, there were so many descriptions of psychic connections that she felt slightly less odd.

Maybe the world was just a little weirder than she'd ever imagined.

But now what? Did she simply allow him to listen to her and ignore him? Did she stop singing so he'd go away? Or was she supposed to find a deeper purpose behind all this?

Christine didn't hear the chimes over the weekend. Raoul took her ice skating at an indoor rink on Saturday, and that allowed her to focus on something more normal. So far, skating was the only physical activity where she was better than Raoul, mostly due to living near a cheap rink when she was a child. "Time to go skating before you knock the house down," her father would say when she was a kid with far too much energy.

Christine glided backwards as Raoul tried to keep his balance. "Yeah. Keep laughing," he said with good humor as she smirked. "Just wait till we play tennis again. See if I show any mercy."

"Aw. Come on," she replied. "Outside of this, I can barely do anything." She increased her speed and inhaled, enjoying the rush of adrenaline and the cold against her face. Her stress dissipated slightly. After speeding once around the circle, she returned to Raoul's side. They skated at a slower pace, hand-in-hand.

"You seem like you're doing a little better," he commented during a break as they both rubbed their sore calves. "Did you speak to someone? A counselor, I mean?"

"No. I, uh, made an appointment and then cancelled it."

He sharply glanced up. "Why?"

"I'm okay right now."

"But it might have helped."

"Raoul."

"Sorry. You're right. It's completely up to you. So, uh…this thing you've been seeing? Do you still think it's real?"

She hesitated and then formed a creative lie. "I think I did see someone originally. Like a homeless person. But then I freaked out and started over exaggerating it. Nerves or anxiety. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah. Definitely. The place you work can be a little creepy. All those old buildings. I hope you can stop working there when it's dark. Don't worry about the money."

"We'll see. I'm okay right now."

When they left the rink and stopped for a burger, she slowly brought up another topic, hoping he wouldn't be able to read through the lines. The late summer sun was bright, and the world seemed less confusing.

"Raoul, do you believe in supernatural things?" She asked the question with an upbeat tone.

"Like what? Aliens and ghosts?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Uh, I've never really seen or heard anything that made me believe in them. But I have relatives who do. Why?"

"What about psychics and mediums?"

He laughed. "Eh. I think that stuff is probably a scam. Like those hotlines? Jupiter is lining up with Venus so watch out for bad news in your love life? At least I get to be the ram."

"Aries," she said with a chuckle. "I'm the fish. Pisces." She paused and ate a French fry. "But don't you think some of it might be real? Like special abilities?"

"I don't know. I—Where is all this coming from?"

"Nothing. Just wondering."

He studied her and then hesitantly asked. "Christine, you're not…having weird things happen to you again, right?"

"_No!_ It's just a fun conversation. Forget I asked." She quickly changed the subject. "So what will we be doing in Florida? Disney World? The beach?"

"Anywhere you want," he replied, his mood quickly improving. She made sure the conversation stayed away from anything weird that didn't involve a life-sized Mickey Mouse or Donald Duck.

That Sunday, during one of their beloved coffee house meetings, Meg was a little more open. "Like reincarnation?" she immediately asked when Christine questioned her about supernatural experiences. "Sometimes I think I was a flamingo in another life."

Christine blinked twice. "A flamingo?"

"Yeah. Just a vibe I get when I'm dancing. I feel like I should be standing on one leg in the water. I feel this warm breeze against me. And I know, if there's reincarnation, I was some kind of bird near the sea."

"Yeah…. Do you believe in psychics and mediums?"

"Um, maybe," Meg replied. "One time I got a really bad feeling on a bus. And then it broke down. Sometimes stuff like that happens."

It wasn't quite what Christine was looking for. But maybe Meg would be a little more open to the supernatural.

Late Sunday afternoon, she went on one last weekend adventure. Christine took the bus to a nursing home, stood outside of the two-story brick building for a moment, and then walked inside. Flowery-scented air freshener greeted her. The entryway had a wooden front desk and then a room with couches and armchairs where family members could greet their elderly relatives. A hunched over woman with white hair shuffled by with her silver walker, her gaze on the ground. An elderly man in a wheelchair nodded and smiled at her from the side of the room, his thin framed hidden by a thick blue bathrobe. Christine gently smiled back. Yet she heard no chimes. And surely there had to be dying people here; this was the final stop for most of these souls. Yet she had no connection to any of them.

So what made the shadow man so special? With a sigh, she left the nursing home and returned to her apartment, pulling a blanket tightly around her as she turned on the television and became lost in her thoughts.

She briefly heard the chimes on Monday afternoon at work. Christine said nothing to encourage or deter him, only keeping an eye over her shoulder for unexpected visitors. Again at work, she found a note on Tuesday with further instructions regarding her singing. She also got her homework back with a comment from the instructor. _Really interesting and brilliant way of going about this. Do you do a lot of composing? But I think your handwriting suffered during the creative process! No one's perfect, though. A+_.

At her vocal lesson, she again followed the cloaked man's directions as the chimes rang in her head. Ian praised her, his dark brown eyes lit up with excitement. Her voice was so much more encompassing, he said. It filled the entire room! As Christine sang, she again wondered if the connection had to do with music. She'd been musical throughout her youth, taking a couple years of violin and piano lessons before finally deciding that singing was her true passion. The shadow man was obviously talented. Was that the origination of this strangeness?

After work on Thursday evening, she found an empty reading room and sat at the table. The chimes approached, slowly and hesitantly. "Hello," she said as though this were all entirely normal. Her heart beat quickened; she nervously folded her hands.

"You should sing something far more advanced for your recital," stated the scratchy voice.

She squinted. "Why?"

"You are far better than you pretend to be."

"I sing for fun. I mean, your advice has been really helpful. But I'll never be a great singer."

"You could be."

"I don't like having a lot of people watching me," she admitted.

"That is ridiculous. You have nothing to hide."

"This isn't your business," she said, uncomfortably shifting. "Maybe you shouldn't listen to me sing anymore, and then you won't worry about it."

"You cannot stop me from listening."

She sighed and rubbed her temples. "Aren't you going to come out?"

"I told you. I will not upset you with my disgusting physical presence. I only want to listen to you."

"It won't upset me. It's not your fault that you're sick." He said nothing to this. "I've been looking into why I can hear you. Let's face it. That's pretty strange." Still, he was silent. "So I've narrowed it down to two reasons. Either it's because you're…not well. Or it's music. I think it's the latter, though. I went to a nursing home and couldn't hear anything in my head. There have to be very ill people in there, right?" No reply. "Why do you think I can hear you?"

"I do not know."

"Doesn't it seem creepy to you?"

"No."

"Why?" she asked.

A pause and then he softly laughed. "You are asking me if I think _you _are creepy?"

"Well, you're sick and-and homeless. But those things are…I mean they're normal problems. Not _normal _but not abnormal. Not supernatural." She sounded ridiculous. "What's your name?"

"These days? Quasimodo seems appropriate, doesn't it?"

"No, it's not. Please tell me. You know mine."

"Erik."

"Erik." The chimes seemed to speed up when she said his name aloud. "Where are you from?"

"Everywhere. Nowhere."

"But you must have had a home at some point. Have you been homeless for a long time?"

"Decades."

"I'm sorry. Have you-"

"Dear girl. I am not here for you to pity me or inquire about my life history. I am here to assist you, if you would like. With your voice and your studies. Before my time expires. Your voice is marvelous. I can make it even more incredible."

"I don't know," she murmured, twiddling her thumbs and glancing down. "This is all so weird. You. Me and what's in my head. Sometimes I wish it would stop so everything could be normal again."

"Then I will not speak to you. If you only allow me to listen, that will also be adequate. I only need that." He kept his voice steady, but she thought she heard the slightest of trembles.

"Why do you care so much about that?" Christine softly asked. "About my singing?"

"You have a beautiful voice. That is all. I have never heard anything like it. As I said, it is a bit of peace. Before…." His voice tapered off. She quickly swallowed and wiped a tear away. "I have upset you?"

"No." She shook her head. "You just…you sound like my father. You remind me of him actually. A love of music. Wandering from place to place. A nomad. He only settled down because he-well, he thought he found someone to love. And then he had to take care of me. Otherwise, I think he would have kept traveling. You remind me of all that. And then, when he got sick, he'd ask me to sing for him sometimes." She looked up and wiped another tear away. "That must be why I have this connection with you. Now that I think about it. That has to be it, Erik. There's no other explanation, right?"

"I suppose not."

She placed her face into her hands for a moment and composed herself. Her voice had given her father peace before death. Was that her duty now? Was that the purpose of all this strangeness? It seemed terribly depressing. To use her voice as comfort for the dying? And yet she didn't ask him to go away again. The chimes tingled softly, a reminder that the dying homeless man, Erik, was not necessarily the strangest of them both.

"Well," she whispered, looking up. "If you're here, you might as well help me with my homework."

* * *

"If you're here, you might as well help me with my homework."

With those words, she allowed him to stay. With those words, she gave him the gift of her company.

Hidden in the shadows, he helped with her questions, theory and composition. She paused at one point and asked, "Do you play instruments, Erik?"

It had been so very long since he'd heard another human being say his name. "I did."

"Which ones?"

"I sampled many. The violin was the easiest to transport from place to place; I played it often. I have frequently indulged in the piano when one was available to me."

"Those were my instruments, too. What's your favorite type of music?"

"Nothing current. Primarily instrumental. Not like that ridiculous song you had on your phone. If it could even be labeled a song. More like felines screeching."

She laughed at his gentle teasing. "I like some current songs, especially when I'm in certain moods. That's why I went into musical therapy. I think music can help people get better. It all makes sense now…." She looked down at her work. "Will you look this over for me? I think I've got it. But—"

"Of course. Leave it."

She slowly stood and slid on her blue sweater. Her eyes frequently glanced from side to side as though she expected to suddenly see him beside her. The air in the library was colder; he did not know if this had to do with his presence. He did not want to know. "You _can_ come out, Erik. I'm sorry if I didn't react well."

"I prefer this arrangement." While he could stand her pity, he did not want her to stare at him as though he were the most pathetic creature on earth. Even if he was.

She said "goodbye" and departed, her papers still resting on the table. When she was gone and the room was dark, he emerged. She had also left him two twenties. He nearly rolled his eyes.

How ridiculous. He had once been a symbol of power and fear. Men had fallen to their knees in his presence throughout some of the oldest cities on Earth, Baghdad and Tehran and Cairo. And now he was shuffling along like an elderly man, hunched over and being offered charity by a frightened girl. A girl with the voice of an angel.

He stared down at the currency. Money couldn't help or save him. But he took it so that some undeserving idiot did not get their hands on her kindness. Perhaps he would find some use for it.

In the late evening, as he returned to his temporary residence, he passed a building with reflective glass doors. A glimpse of himself. A reminder. The physical pain did make him lean over like a hunchback. Once beneath the ground, he removed his gloves and cloak. The open sores on his hands caused the leather to stick to his skin. _Disgusting. _

A memory returned. The vile antidote to his sickness. His other possible fate.

Alexander.

"_I find you amusing, Erik. I fixed that little problem around sixty years ago, mainly just to get a woman to let me between her thighs. It was one of the first things I did. Building up power took much more time. I wasn't born to be a manipulator. Or a killer. Or a natural leader. Yet you're the opposite. Power has come easily to you. People are underneath your thumb before they realize it." A pause. "And yet you haven't repaired that little problem." He gestured to his own face. "Why?" _

"_I do not know how to fix this."_

"_Yes, you do, Erik. You've always known."_ _Alexander reached forward and ripped the black mask off. He flinched backward. "Look at you! You're an ugly mess, and it only makes the rest of your work that much harder. Your transition is nearly complete. Except for that. You've already done the hard part." _

"_I do not know how—"_

"_Yes, you do."_

"_Find the next," _he _finally whispered. "I must find the next one. That is how I fix it." The truth finally found its way to his consciousness. Alexander was correct; he had always known. _

"_Exactly." Alexander grinned. Despite his handsome face…despite the fact that he was nearly eighty and had the appearance of a thirty-year-old, there was something very ugly about the man. Especially regarding his smile. It was cold and unnatural, as were his very reflective black eyes. "It won't be too hard. There are a lot of despairing people in the world these days." He inhaled. "I can always smell the terror in the air. The utter desperation of humanity." _

_He_ tore himself from the memory.

It was all a lie anyway. Alexander had no longer been human. To completely please the thing was to _become_ the thing. The other fate was utter surrender. Non-existence.

If he followed that specific path, _he_ would no longer exist—no longer even desire her. The thing was not capable of love. Or music. Or beauty.

But it was thoughts of a middle ground between both fates that began to drive him insane—of letting _it_ win just enough to have her.

_No, no, no. _He clutched his head, not knowing which thoughts were his own. He had fought for so long, endured physical pain and mental anguish for the sole purpose of defeating the thing. And now it was to be all undone by a female? By Christine Daae. Even the thought of her name sent shivers down his decrepit body. He could not tear himself away from her.

He continued to write her notes with advice and to listen to her every Wednesday. Once a week, he came to the reading room and assisted her with homework. And basked in her wondrous company. If she had been unable to sense him, he likely would have shadowed her everywhere and completely lost his mind. Her strange gift placed some boundaries on a rapidly deteriorating situation.

October arrived. The leaves changed colors and fell. And he continued to disintegrate as her voice continued to thrive. The only time he could escape the physical pain was while lying in his coffin. Yet he stood there for hours every week in agony, listening to her sing or speaking to her.

"Thank you for all your help," she said one evening. "This semester has been easier. For a while, I thought it was going to be horrible. But it hasn't been."

"Do not think on it."

"I've been meaning to ask you. Why did you want that book so much? That's what started all this."

He twitched. "I merely have an interest in very old books. A hobby of mine."

"Can you actually understand what it says?"

If he said 'yes,' it would lead to a whole set of questions that he could not answer. Not without ruining everything. "Very little of it."

"Oh." She started to stand up and gather her things. "I still wish you'd come out and let me help you. Or let me find someone else who could help. I haven't told anyone about you."

"Do not. They will think you insane."

"Not if you talk to them or let them see you," she insisted.

"I will never do that."

"But maybe someone could help-"

"Stop attempting to give me that sort of help! It does not _help_! Do you understand?! Cease with it!" She flinched back, and he could tell he had hurt her. And it was a terrible feeling. "Forgive me," he murmured. "I simply—Simply _stop._ Tell no one of me or of this. Ever. They cannot help."

"All right." She folded her arms against her chest, her fingers squeezing at the silky material of a yellow blouse that matched her hair. After a moment in silence, she said, "My recital is in November. I'm nervous about the piece you chose."

"I will help with this," he replied, thankful she had pulled the conversation away from him. "You will be fine."

"The notes your give me help. But then sometimes I'm not sure if I'm following your instructions when I'm actually singing. Ian is really, really good. But…I think you might be better." She laughed.

"I _am _better," he replied. She laughed again. And then she left.

She'd forgotten her sweater. It hung on the back of the chair like a blue ghost until he grabbed it. And took it. As he limped home, he buried his masked face into the cotton material.

Suddenly, the sweater began to tightly wrap itself around his cheeks and head as though attempting to smother him. Of course, he could not die, but the fabric still squeezed his skull to the point of pain. The sleeves stretched and wrapped around his neck in a morbid embrace. He struggled, fighting with the sweater—or rather the thing for at least a minute. _It_ was torturing him.

Finally, he released the sweater's grip, but the mask came off with it, baring his face to the cold air. He grabbed the piece of black leather before it could hit the ground. He stood there, his arms limply hanging at his sides, the mask in one hand and the sweater in the other. Hidden in the shadows and by the cloak, he returned underground.

He could sense the thing laughing at him. He did not care.

He wanted to touch her. And smell her hair. Yet this would do for the night.

When he climbed into the coffin, he still clung to the sweater and buried his ugly face into its softness and female scent.

A blue thread unraveled and tickled his cheek.

And he nearly unraveled along with it.


	10. Chapter 10

Enjoy the softer and sweeter moments of this chapter. Because…yeah….

**Thank you for all your kind and wonderful comments! Enjoy and review! **

A part of her was quietly waiting for all of this to culminate with something important. And then the other part of her had settled into a strange routine over the next weeks. She had never had such a strong musical connection with anyone, and that wasn't even including the mind chimes.

Sometimes he sounded so weak that Christine worried he would suddenly die. She cared.

Then again, what if he were meant to die soon? What if that were the purpose of all this? Was she supposed to help him find peace? Again, she combed through books and the Internet for some type of magic answer. Nothing helped. By accident, she came across one passage in an older leather book that was slightly disturbing.

"There are a select few that display sensitivity to the darkness and presence of other worldly beings. This can manifest in ways such as seeing shadows, sounds in the mind, temperature changes, or simply an inexplicable feeling that one is not alone."

She brushed it aside as nonsense…fiction. Things like that didn't exist. Maybe mild psychic connections were real, but that was the extent of her belief in the supernatural.

One cold October evening, Christine sat in the reading room and waited for him to arrive. She supposed this would all have to resolve itself either after her recital or at the end of the semester.

"You wished me to have more direct interaction with your singing?" His voice cut into her ponderings.

"I thought it might be helpful," she replied, hoping she hadn't gotten herself into something too strange.

"Will you come with me to another location?" There was a hesitance in his tone.

"Why?"

"I do not think your employer will appreciate a violin in their library, do you?"

Her eyes widened, and her heart jumped. "You mean you'll accompany me?"

"Yes. If you wish."

"All right. Yes. That would be great." She slowly rose and slipped on her pink jacket. Vaguely, Christine wondered what had happened to her blue sweater. Without a word, she shut the door to the reading room, ran downstairs, and then headed outside. The sun had nearly set, and a frigid wind brushed against her cheeks. The insects had all died, and there were only faint voices and laughter in the distance.

She followed the chimes as they led her to the main music building. A few lights in the hallway remained on, but she was alone. Christine shivered as the chimes led her into a room; she flipped on a single light. A soft glow cast shadows across the space, illuminating a piano and metal cabinet. She started to turn on another light, but he said, "Do not. That is enough."

"Okay." Her hand fell down to her side, and she nervously waited.

"Everyone will merely think you are here for a late lesson," he explained. "I considered remaining outside. But someone might have heard, and the cold is not good for your voice."

"No. This is fine." She glanced around. "Where are you?"

"That does not matter."

She finally saw the faint outline of a moving shape in the darkened corner. Still, she respected his space and distance, remaining in the middle of the room. Before she could ask what they would be doing, he began to play a violin. The cloaked figure seemed to sway with the sound as Christine stood frozen in shock. The chimes in her head and her pulse sped up with the smooth melody, and her heart leaped into her throat.

Stopping, he asked, "Are you ready to begin?"

"Erik, I never knew you could play like that. I never knew anyone could play like that." He said nothing. "Yes, I'm ready." But she still felt upset over the fact that someone with so much talent was left to die miserably in the cold.

He led her through a very complicated set of warm-ups and then through her new song, one of Juliet's arias from Gounod's opera. It seemed like, at every note, he would pause and correct her. Posture. Or how wide she opened her mouth and breathed as he made every attempt to perfect her resonance and volume. Sometimes she became angry at his bluntness and constant criticism. But, in the end, he was making her a better singer. Maybe hurt feelings were the price of perfection. A small price, really.

Finally, the music stopped. The shadow became very still, and she saw a flicker of the yellow eyes, always watching her. "I suppose that is enough for tonight."

"Erik," she whispered. "That was amazing."

"Such a modest girl," he teased.

"No, no." She laughed. "The whole thing. Especially your playing. I've never heard anything like it."

"No one is completely useless."

"Is there anything I can get for you?" she softly asked. "Food? Clothes? A hotel room even?"

"No. I have all I need."

"But you're helping me. Don't you want _anything _in return?" He didn't answer. She wanted to argue with him but stopped herself. This conversation always ended the same way. "Well, thank you. For this."

"We will do this again before you recital," he stated. And then the chimes began to fade as he disappeared. Yet she sensed him continuing to watch her as she left the music building and walked to her bus, making certain she was safe. He seemed too weak and ill to harm a mouse. And yet….

And yet she always had this feeling deep in her subconscious that he was not so harmless. It was why she kept a distance. It was why she would sometimes sit up during the middle of the night and look around her room. And shudder.

Just a feeling.

Her apartment was becoming very messy. The two boxes still sat unpacked in a corner. Dishes were stacked in the sink, and books and papers were spread out across the coffee table. A layer of dust had collected on the furniture, and the carpet had an unsightly amount of crumbs. Her days were spent consumed by music, researching her psychic ability, and thinking about very strange things. Schoolwork received the remainder of her attention. Or Raoul when they both had enough free time. So housework suffered.

"Are you sure you want to come over?" she asked Meg on a Friday evening. "I can straighten up some things. But I doubt it's going to get that much better."

"It can't be that bad," Meg had replied. "See you in a few!"

Yet when Meg arrived, she immediately started to laugh. "Yikes! It did get kind of bad. Messy Christine."

"I warned you. It's even worse than usual. I'm praying Raoul doesn't want to stop by."

"Here. I'll help you out a bit." As Meg sorted through some school papers and placed them into a neater pile, she glanced up. "So. Is everything okay? You have seemed kind of distracted."

"I'm just really focused on my music." She said the sentence a little too fast.

"Oh. That's cool then."

"How's your semester going?"

"Busy. But I'm glad I decided to come back. Academia may be the way to go." Meg side glanced her. "But everything is really okay with you? School is good? Raoul and you are doing well?"

"Yeah. Everything's fine." Yet as Christine dusted off her television with a damp rag, she had a strong urge to finally tell someone. Raoul wasn't the right person; he'd just get upset. But Meg was open-minded. She'd spent time by herself in the city and had interacted with a variety of artists and people on the fringe of society. And Christine only wanted to give her enough information to lessen the burden. Sometimes it was difficult dealing with all of this by herself.

"You have to promise me you won't tell anyone this," she began, sitting on the couch. She plopped the rag on the table. The apartment was already looking a little better.

"Ooh! Secrets! I knew something was going on with you." Meg practically bounced up and down. She took a quick seat next to Christine "I promise! What's up?"

"I've been taking singing lessons with someone. I mean, besides my lesson with Ian. I have another music teacher."

"Really? Who?"

"This…man. That I met."

Meg blinked. "A man? Like an older man?"

"Oh, yes," Christine murmured. "He has to be at least sixty or seventy or older, I think."

"Oh. So this isn't like…. I almost thought you were saying—"

"No! I wouldn't cheat on Raoul. No, it's not like that. He's like this old, very sick but very talented…man."

"Very sick how?"

"He's dying of something. I don't know what. But he's probably the most talented person I've ever met. He knows everything in the world about music. And he's been helping me progress so much with my singing."

"How did you get involved with him?"

"I ran into him in the library. I'm not sure that he has much of a home."

Meg frowned and studied her. "You just meet with him, and he helps you sing?"

"It was a little more complicated than that. We had some other things in common. And I know it's kind of weird. That's why I wanted to tell someone else. But you have to promise not to tell anyone. Please."

"I won't. But let me know right away if you ever think you're in danger."

"He's not dangerous," Christine insisted. "The poor man can barely walk. I'm afraid that he's going to fall over dead right in front of me."

"That is very sad."

"Yeah. I really just want to help him. But he won't let me. I wonder if I could ever convince him to find hospice care or something. Like my dad had. But he never wants my help."

Meg shrugged and seemed a little uncomfortable. "Some people don't want to go to nursing homes or places like that. My grandpa didn't; he wanted to die in his home."

"Sometimes I wonder why he's helping me at all. He should be in bed and resting."

"Maybe he just likes helping you." She paused. "But, still, be really careful. Make sure he doesn't want anything weird from you, right?"

"Like what?"

Meg patted her arm. "Christine, I know you can be kind of clueless. But you're not that bad. He is a man."

"Like I said, he can barely walk. Don't make this creepy!"

"All right. I get it. Have you told Raoul?"

"Of course not."

Meg chuckled. "Yeah. He'd get the cops."

"And that's the last thing I need. More silly panic." Christine sighed. "Poor Erik."

"Is that his name?"

"Yes. Remember. No telling anyone about this."

"I won't." Meg couldn't help but add one more, "Please be careful."

Christine supposed it was all becoming too weird. She couldn't carry on like this forever, talking to shadows and following head chimes to secret places. Despite the wondrousness of the music, this wasn't normal or exactly sane. The best way that this could all end, in her mind, was Erik agreeing to help. She sincerely doubted that he had insurance, and so the cost of decent end-of-life care programs seemed impossibly high for someone with her salary and debt. But after their next lesson, she became even more determined to make it happen.

She joined him again in the same music room for their lesson, slowly slipping off her heavier coat and placing it and her purse by the door. "Hello, Erik," she greeted the chimes.

"Christine." His voice had grown both scratchier and gentler during their time together. Except for his criticism, he was generally kind to her.

"Three weeks to go," she murmured.

"And you are nearly ready."

They warmed up, and she began to sing, loosing herself in the melody as it swept her off the ground. She was quickly shocked back to the earth. Toward the beginning, the violin suddenly squealed, and the awful sound was followed by a soft groan of pain. Without even thinking about it, she followed the chimes to the corner and knelt beside the fallen cloaked shadow.

"Erik?"

"I am fine. Go. Just go."

"No, you're not. You're not fine! Why in God's name won't you let anyone help you? It's so frustrating!" She bit back tears.

The polished violin was on the carpeted floor beside the bow. His black gloved hands were curled into fists.

"_Do not,"_ he nearly hissed as she took one hand. Yet he didn't pull away from her. She started to remove the glove, pausing in case it would anger him too much. But, for some reason, he allowed her to go forward. She held back a gasp and managed to remain calm despite the horribleness.

His white, bony hands were covered in bleeding sores. Some had white liquid oozing out of them. It was as though someone had stabbed and burned his skin all at once, distorting the flesh beyond recognition. His fingers seemed permanently curled, and his little finger was yellowed to the point that it looked as though it might actually rot off. She swallowed back a sick feeling.

"You shouldn't be playing the violin," she murmured as she realized how much pain it must cause him.

"I wished to play with your voice." He refused to look at her, his gaze straight ahead. "It was all I wished to do. Combine our efforts, you see."

"Doesn't it hurt?"

"It does not matter. Pain is easily ignored for the sake of art. And perfection. And...you."

She allowed his hand to rest on top of hers, palms touching- feeling sad, frightened, and helpless. "Erik," she began. "I don't understand why you don't think you deserve some comfort at this time. But you do. People deserve that. And you do…."

He finally tore his hand away. She leaned back onto the carpet, still cautious of him. "You do not know anything!" he snapped. "So stay silent about it!"

"Then tell me. Tell me so I understand."

"It could be different." His voice was a whisper.

"What could be different?" she asked, glancing up. The air suddenly seemed colder around her, almost as though a pair of frigid arms had wrapped themselves around her shoulders from behind. Christine looked around and shivered. A gust of air blew some strands of hair out of place and into her eyes. She had the strangest feeling that they weren't alone in the room. She shook her head and forced the eerie sensation away. "_What _could be different?"

"Nothing," he muttered. "Nothing could ever be." He rose, and she stood up beside him. They didn't look at each other.

"Will you still be here after my recital?" she softly asked. "I don't know if I can take lessons in the spring. Not with Ian at least. And my schedule is already going to be busy."

She didn't know what she wanted his answer to be. And was therefore more confused when he asked, "Do you want Erik to still be near?"

She hesitated. "You've really helped me. I wish you'd let me help you. If…if you want to still give me lessons, I could make time. But—"

"But what?" he whispered.

"But, Erik, surely you don't want to spend your last months like this. Homeless and hiding. Giving me lessons while you're in pain."

"What if I do?' he countered. "What if I have never been happier?"

_Then I feel so sorry for you._ Christine didn't say it aloud, but she thought it. Why didn't he have family or other friends during his last sad months on earth? The flicker of yellow gazed at her beneath the cloak. And it almost looked like he _did_ want something from her.

"Goodnight, Christine. Goodnight," he said, stepping backward. "Perhaps we will return to our reading room. Yes. Yes, I think that is best. You do not need any more pathetic nights with this ridiculousness."

"Erik—"

But he departed, and she was left confused.

Lately, she spent ninety-five percent of her life confused.

It was starting to affect her relationship a bit. Raoul had been busy with classes and projects, and so Christine had doubted that he'd noticed her distance. But he did.

They were at his friend's Halloween party. It was fairly tame, people drinking and chatting in small groups as "Monster Mash" played in the background. She'd put on a pink Jeannie costume that she'd worn previous years. Occasionally people would tell her that she looked like a young Barbara Eden, and so Christine ran with it whenever she needed a quick costume. She managed to wear it so that her bare stomach wasn't showing the entire evening. "Again?" Raoul asked when he first saw her. "Does that mean you're going to call me Master?"

She whacked him on the shoulder. "Not unless you're going as an astronaut. Which you're not!"

Raoul was a pirate, complete with an eye patch, black boots, and a red bandana. He even had a fake hook for a hand and was having a difficult time functioning with it. "It really makes me appreciate having two hands," he'd stated as he nearly spilled his glass of wine. She was enjoying the carefree evening and trying to ignore the worries in the back of her mind.

They'd walked around and chitchatted with a dinosaur, a vampire couple, the Clintons, and a flying turtle. Alone at last in a corner, Raoul asked, "Are you having a good time?"

"Yeah. It's nice to get out."

"Good. I'm glad. You've seemed kind of distracted lately. I was really glad you could come tonight. I've felt kind of distant from you."

"Just busy with school," she replied, taking a sip from a plastic red cup. "And you've been busy, too, Mr. MBA."

"I'm sorr—"

"No, no. Don't be, Raoul. We've both had lots going on. It's okay. It happens."

"Have you thought about moving in together? Then we'd see each other all the time."

"Still definitely thinking about it." That decision was going to have to come after a whole host of others.

Bored, they left the party early and climbed into his car. They kissed for a while, and then he eagerly moved to her face and neck. She hummed softly, enjoying his warmth. During her panic attack in September, Raoul had seemed a little afraid of her. But since she'd stopped freaking out about library ghosts, her boyfriend was treating her like a grown woman again. She felt trapped between the normal and the abnormal, wanting pieces of both yet fearing they would eventually collide.

He kissed her temple one last time and drew back, smiling at her. He studied her, and the smile faded.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"I don't know. It's hard to explain. You've just seem…sadder or something."

"I'm not sad. I've had a great night."

"But I mean besides tonight. You've seemed different this semester. Does it have to do with what happened earlier? Are you seeing things? Do you feel like you're not safe?"

"No. It's…. I-I have a friend who is dying. That's what's wrong." It seemed like an innocuous way to explain it. She was tired of outright lying.

"I'm sorry," he replied. "Who?"

"A musician at the university. He's helped me a lot." She'd become really good at half-truths.

"Oh. That's too bad. Is he sick or old?"

"Both, I think." She hesitated and looked straight ahead. "I hate asking you for this. It's not your problem. But I get really upset because he's practically impoverished. And I don't have much to give him. So even the occasional twenty would help." She paused then added. "Like I said, I feel bad for asking-"

"Christine." He leaned over and put an arm around her. "You know, if you asked me for five thousand dollars shoes, I'd get them for you. I mean, I love you because you're _not _like that. You don't care about expensive designer stuff like some girls do. And now the one thing you want money for is completely unselfish? Yeah. Just let me know."

"Thank you." She started to cry.

"Hey. It's okay. What's wrong?"

She shook her head into his shoulder, getting his white ruffled shirt damp. "It's just been a really, really strange semester."

"I know it has."

"I feel confused. And really helpless sometimes."

"You're not helpless. People get sick, and it sucks when nothing can be done."

She nodded in silent agreement. They embraced for a while, letting the heater blow over them. "Are you coming to my recital?" she asked, glancing up with a smile.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Thanks. I hope it's not a complete disaster."

He laughed. "I'm sure you'll be awesome."

She was very eager to arrive at the date of her performance. She somehow sensed its importance. She desired resolution and an answer to all of this.

Erik soon left her a note at work requesting that they have another reading room meeting. She knew that he didn't want her to see him in pain again. He clearly despised his own vulnerability. Christine brought him a green felt blanket, a ham and cheese sandwich in a baggie, and some high quality skin cream that she hoped would heal his dry and cracked hands. He said nothing as she placed her gifts on the center of the table and then sat down. The chimes rang in her mind.

"I've never been so excited and nervous about a recital before." She squeezed her fingers together.

"It is certain to be your best."

That was all he said. She waited for about ten seconds for him to continue. "Why'd you ask me here tonight, Erik? Did you want to tell me something?"

A pause. "No. I merely wished to see you again before your performance. That is all. Your company."

She looked down and smiled. "Well, since I'm here-tell me more about yourself. Anything. Your family. What were your parents like?"

"This again? I told you that my life is not worth asking about." He audibly sighed. "I did not know them."

"Oh. I'm sorry. My mother left when I was very young. So I really didn't know her."

"I cannot imagine anyone leaving you," he softly replied.

"Where did you grow up?" she asked.

"I constantly moved from place to place. Foster homes. Orphanages. The street. It was my choice. To keep moving. You need not pity my decisions."

She couldn't imagine a small child moving from place to place a on his own. Still, Christine didn't delve into it. "And when you grew up?"

"I went overseas," he replied. "Multiple countries."

"And you were homeless?"

A pause. "Yes. Always homeless. But not always like this. There was a time when I owned more ridiculous possessions than you can imagine."

She squinted. "Really? What happened to it all?"

"I did not want it any longer. The price seemed too high."

"The price?"

"Do not worry about these matters. They were long ago. Think only of your music and the performance."

At least she'd gotten a little out of him. She was still as confused as ever. "You'll come see me sing?" she asked.

"I would not miss it for the world."

"And I'll speak to you afterwards? You can tell me if I did everything right?"

"Yes. Of course. I will be there."

"Thank you."

He gave her a few more tips for her voice, addressing her main problem areas. And then he said, "Goodnight, my dear. You will be the brightest star."

She would always remember him saying that.

Because it was the last time Christine ever heard that scratchy, sickly, pained voice.

"Goodnight," she replied with a soft smile. "Take care, Erik."

She didn't see him again before her big night. Many evenings were spent studying for exams or writing reports. None of it was too intimidating now. Sometimes she would hear chimes when she was singing with Ian or occasionally at work. She'd consider speaking to him and asking about his health. But Erik seemed to want to maintain a distance. He was getting worse and worse, more decrepit and ill with each day that passed. Even in her excitement about the recital, she felt the constant pull of sadness on her tired heart.

Everything was kind of perfect when that evening arrived. Her voice. Her grades. Raoul was there. She saw him come in and take a seat near the front of the auditorium, looking incredibly handsome in a black tweed coat, white dress shirt, and tie. His blond hair was slightly windblown, and his face was a little red from the cold. She heard chimes and knew that Erik was nearby as well. She smiled to herself, nervously playing with a strand of her longer hair. She'd decided to start growing it out again.

She wore a long chiffon lavender dress and silver hoop earrings. Half her hair was swept up into a bun while the rest dangled loosely beside her cheeks. She'd never felt this glamorous. Christine peeked through the curtain. The audience wasn't huge, but it was still big enough to give her goose bumps and make her heart pound. The ceilings were high, and she knew her voice would need to be very strong to fill the enormous room. And she was performing last that night, so she'd be the most memorable. Unless everyone had gotten bored by then and left.

A pianist and then a violinist played first. A smaller orchestra followed. And then the jazz choir. A male a cappella group sang—they were very funny and woke the audience up a bit. And then a couple of other singers who were not so funny. By the time everyone else was finished, Christine felt entirely intimidated. Plus the audience was getting a little antsy and ready to head home. Raoul gave her an encouraging smile and nod, and the chimes rang in her mind. _Here we go…._

The lights were bright as she climbed up there, her high heels clicking lightly on the wood. She stared into the audience for a moment, breathing deeply. And then-she simply sang her heart out that night. It felt like no performance before, beyond anything she'd ever done. Her confusion and sadness over the last months perhaps added to her passion and voice. When it was over, the audience gave her a standing ovation. She smiled as her chest rose and fell. Beads of sweat had formed on her forehead.

As she took her bow and walked off stage, she grabbed the rail to steady herself. After overcoming her dizziness, Christine started to look for Erik to give him her gratitude. And tell him that she'd see him again after the Thanksgiving Break.

"Christine!"

She whirled around at the familiar voice. "Hi there!"

"You were fantastic!" Raoul handed her a large bouquet of red roses as her eyes lit up. Then he grabbed her into his arms and gave her a long kiss.

"Oh, Raoul." Her eyes filled with tears. "Thank you!"

"I want to take you out to dinner to celebrate." He grinned. "Anywhere you want. Someplace nice. With great dessert."

"Yeah, definitely," she replied. "I'd love to." They shared another kiss.

"Also, I told my dad about your charitable cause. I think he might help out. He's the one with the big bucks. So…."

"Really?" she whispered. "Thank you. That means so much."

"I love you. You were amazing."

"I love you, too! I-" She glanced behind her. "I'll be right back. Okay? I just need to thank someone. And then we can go."

"Yeah! I'll be right here."

With the roses still in hand, Christine began to turn around and walk toward the back of the building. Most people had filtered out, and so it was easier to find her way in the dim lighting.

But she suddenly noticed the chimes were different. Stranger. Darker and in a lower key. They began to make her head throb.

"Erik?" she asked, her voice shaking. She placed a hand to her right temple.

But now the chimes were quickly fading away. He was heading in the opposite direction. Fleeing. _Running._ Her heart fell. Christine ran toward the glass doors and opened them, the cold air rushing over her bare arms. But it would be impossible to catch him now. The chimes became nothing but a somber and distant echo.

Disoriented, Christine sank to her knees, probably ruining her dress, and stared out into the darkness. "Something's wrong," she murmured. "Something's so wrong."

"Christine?" Raoul came up behind her. "Are you okay? What are you doing out here? It's cold. Who are you looking for?"

"I—"

"What's wrong?" Raoul knelt down beside her.

"He's…he's so upset. And angry."

"Who's angry?"

"I don't understand. I was only trying to help," she whispered. "I don't understand what's happening."

"Maybe you're just tired," he said. "You put a lot of work into tonight." Raoul took off his coat and put it over her shoulders. "Let's get something to eat, okay? You can thank the person later. Maybe they already left."

Nodding, she took Raoul's arm and allowed him to help her back up. She leaned against him as he led her toward his car, glancing back over her shoulder every so often. Yet the chimes were gone. They were alone.

Dinner was wonderful. Delicious Italian food, stuffed shells in a tomato sauce and soft bread sticks. A warm flickering fireplace in the front of the restaurant. Glowing candles. Vases of flowers. Smiling, well-dressed couples at every table. Raoul held her hand and repeatedly told her the performance was amazing. Yet her head felt so strange that she had a difficult time concentrating.

She shivered all night long.

She still felt nervous as she left with Raoul several days later to join his family for Thanksgiving. There were no more chimes…no signs of him.

They prepared to leave, throwing last minute items in their suitcases. Raoul turned on the morning news, looking for a weather report for when they traveled north. She briefly heard the last part of a story as she brushed her hair and put on her seashell earrings.

"—discovered by a man jogging just after eight o'clock . Police have not yet said whether last night's suspicious death is connected with the male victim found two nights ago near the Brown Street apartment complex. According to an official who asked to remain anonymous, the cause of death in that case was asphyxiation. It has not yet been determined whether foul play was involved. We'll keep you updated on this breaking news story. Coming up, a look at the upcoming football games-"

She picked up her suitcase and took a deep breath, quietly telling herself it would all be okay. Maybe Erik had just wanted some time to himself or had finally found a place to comfortably rest. She hoped for the latter. She hoped he'd find peace.

As the November sun streamed down upon them, she and Raoul drove forward down the highway-toward food, family, and warmth.


End file.
